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SEP  28 19ft 


SELECTIONS 


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FROM   THE 


POETICAL   WRITINGS 


OF 


JANE    LEWERS    GRAY. 


PRINTED  FOR  PRIVA  TE  DISTRIBUTION. 


NEW   YORK: 

1872. 


D 


i 


Printed  by  Eeward  O.  Jenkins, 

for 
Anson  D.  F.  Randolph  &  Co. 


g 


Introductory    Note. 


JANE  LEWERS  GRAY,  daughter  of  Wil- 
liam Lewers,  Esq.,  of  Castle-Blayney,  Ireland, 
was  born  August  2,  1796.  On  her  mothers 
side  she  was  connected  with  several  distinguished 
officers  of  the  British  army ;  among  them  Major- 
General  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  of  the  East  India 
Company's  Service  ;  while  on  that  of  her  father 
she  could  claim  relationship  with  several  patriots 
of  the  American  Revolution.  She  was  educated 
at  the  celebrated  Moravian  Seminary  of  Grace 
Hill,  near  Belfast,  and  at  an  early  age  was  married 
to  the  Rev.  John  Gray,  of  the  County  Monaghan. 
In  1820  she  embarked  with  her  husband  for 
America,  and  after  a  stormy  passage  of  more  than 
six  months,  during  which  she  suffered  many  and 
great  perils,  landed  on  the  island  of  Bermuda, 
from  which  they  subsequently  sailed  for  the  British 
province  of  New  Brunswick.  After  a  residence 
there  of  eighteen  months,  they  removed  to  the 
city   of  New  York.     In   September,    1822,   Mr. 

(iii) 


IV 


IN  TROD  UCTOR  V  NO  TE. 


Gray  was  called  to  the  pastorate  of  the  First 
Presbyterian  Church,  at  Easton,  Pennsylvania, 
which  important  position  he  continued  to  occupy 
for  forty-five  years.  His  death  occurred  on  the 
1 2th  of  January,  1868,  and  four  years  later,  on  the 
1 8th  of  November,  1 871,  Mrs.  Gray,  at  the  ripe  age 
of  seventy-five  years,  calmly  fell  asleep  in  Jesus. 

The  simple  records  of  such  a  life  afford  little 
material  to  interest  the  general  reader.  Her  days 
were  spent  in  the  performance  of  domestic  duties, 
to  which  were  added  those  incident  to  her  hus- 
band's profession.  The  Christian  mother,  and  the 
Pastors  wife, — these  two  relations  imposed  re- 
sponsibilities which,  however  exacting,  attracted 
little,  if  any,  of  the  world's  attention  to  win  its 
applause  ;  and  yet,  in  their  wise  and  patient  dis- 
charge, she  won  the  lasting  affection  of  human 
hearts,  and  trained  children  for  immortality. 
Fifty  years  of  such  a  life — privately,  and  yet 
in  a  sense,  publicly — passed  in  one  place, 

44  Where  none  knew  her  but  to  love  her, 
None  named  her  but  to  praise," 

is  the  unwritten  testimony — far  better  than  that 
graven  in  brass  or  marble — of  a  life  of  Faith  and 
Good  Works. 


INTROD  UCTOR  Y  NO  TE.  v 

For  many  years,  Mrs.  Gray's  name  was  favor- 
ably known  to  the  readers  of  the  religious  press. 
She  wrote  much,  and  many  of  her  poems  obtained 
a  wide  circulation  at  home  and  abroad,  some  of 
them  being  translated  into  foreign  languages. 
The  poem  entitled  "  Morn,"  which  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  fitting  sequel  to  Montgomery's 
"  Night,"  was  by  some  reviewers  attributed  to 
that  poet,  who  subsequently,  in  a  letter  addressed 
to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gray,  wrote  as  follows :  "  The 
critics  who  have  mistaken  these  beautiful  stanzas 
for  mine  have  done  me  honor  ;  but  I  willingly 
forego  the  claim,  and  am  happy  to  recognize  a 
sister  poet  in  the  writer." 

She  wrote  with  great  facility,  but  always  with 
much  feeling,  and  without  studied  elaboration. 
Her  work  was  the  reflex  of  her  own  experience, 
revealing  a  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful, 
and  warm  and  generous  affections.  The  afflictions 
of  neighbors  and  friends;  the  pleasing  incidents 
of  domestic  life ;  and  occasions  of  public  interest, 
readily  awakened  her  sympathies,  and  inspired  her 
pen.  Much  that  she  wrote  was  never  designed 
for  publication,  but  a  wise  and  loving  purpose  was 
always  manifest  in  the  composition. 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

Though  often  urged  to  collect  her  poems  in  a 
volume,  she  uniformly  declined  to  do  so.  During 
the  last  year  of  her  life,  however,  she  placed  them 
at  the  disposal  of  her  children,  and  these  selec- 
tions have  been  made  as  a  Memorial  Volume,  for 
private  distribution  among  those  who  knew  and 
loved  her  best. 

The  writer  has  done  little  more  than  arrange  the 
poems  for  the  press ;  but  he  now  remembers,  with 
peculiar  interest,  that  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  while  traveling  by  packet-boat  on  the 
Juniata,  he  first  heard,  from  the  lips  of  a  student  in 
the  college  at  Easton,  of  Mrs.  Gray  in  her  social 
relations.  The  young  man  was  warm  in  his 
praises  of  one  who  had  evidently  gained  his  heart 
Ours  was  but  the  passing  evening  talk  of  travel- 
ers, who  parted  a  few  days  later,  and  the  incident 
is  here  recalled  as  illustrating  the  winning  influ- 
ence of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  as  showing  how  lttle 
cither  of  us  then  thought,  that  in  after  years  one 
would  be  called  to  the  service  now  performed ; 
and  in  which  I  have  been  brought  to  realize 
something  of  the  charm  which  invested  her  life, 
and  endeared  her  to  all  who  knew  her. 

A.  D.  F.  R. 


A    LETTER    IN    RHYME. 

MY    DEAR    HUSBAND:— 

TOU  know  I  hate  prosing,  nor  yet  have  I  time, 
To  write  a  prose  letter — so  take  it  in  rhyme. 
The  children  to  bed  have  all  quietly  gone, 
While  I  silently  sit  in  the  study  alone. 
I  know  not,  I  'm  sure,  what  I  better  can  do, 
Than  take  up  my  pen  and  hold  converse  with  you. 
You  may  say  it  is  strange — when  you  're  far  away, 
And  nought  in  return  to  my  prattle  can  say, 
That  I  talk  of  conversing — yet  remember,  my  dear, 
That  I  often  converse  all  alone  when  you  're  here. 
And  though  all  I  say  may  be  very  well  heard, 
Yet  you  do  not  answer  me,  love,  with  a  word  ; 
We  '11  not  talk  of  that  now — from  my  subject  I  wan- 
der. 
Your  letter  came  safe  by  your  friend,  Alexander. 
I  did  all  you  asked,  and  was  civil  and  kind, 
And  found  him  a  youth  very  much  to  my  mind  : 
Polite  and  good-natured,  nor  wanting  in  knowledge, 

(3) 


ft 


4  A   LETTER  IN  RHYME. 

But  I  did  not  go  up  with  him,  dear,  to  our  college  ! 
Because  he  preferred  having  Mary  and  Susan, 
Who  both  were  delighted  to  walk  with  their  cousin: 
He  bought  them  ice-cream  and  some  mineral  waters, 
So  your  wife  gladly  gave  up  her  place  to  your  daugh- 
ters. 
There  was  one  thing  I  did  not  much  like  in  your 

letter, 
It  said  you  were  sick,  but  I  hope,  love,  you  're  better. 
The  lines  which  you  offer,  I  gratefully  take  them, 
What  I  wish  them  to  be,  I  can  very  soon  make  them  ; 
They  are  just  what  I  wanted,  so  strong  and  so  good, 
Why  if  you  had  not  written  them,  surely  /should  : 
I'll  repay  them  in  kind,  you  may  call  them  but  lent, 
How  clever  it  was  in  you,  dear,  to  consent ! 
But  who  talks  of  poetry  ? — sure  you  forget, 
I  have  not  got  through  with  my  house-cleaning  yet. 
But  your  books  and  your  papers  we  righted  them  up, 
And  settled  your  study  from  bottom  to  top  ; 
And  first  we  with  water  made  ample  ablution, 
Where  potash  and  soap-fat  were  held  in  solution  ; 
Then  our  maid  unbidden  did  cheerfully  bring 
Pure  water,  and  fresh  from  our  Fermer  street  spring  ; 
Which  she  dashed  all  about,  in  her  lawful  vocation, 
'Till  down  to  the  floor  flowed  the  copious  libation. 
Then,  with  a  clean  towel,  I  polished  the  glasses, 
While  she  took  out  the  windows,  and  scrubbed  well 
the  sashes  ; 


r> 


A   LETTER  IN  RHYME. 


5 


And  to  give  to  each  object  a  rich  tint  and  mellow, 
We  white-washed  the  walls  with  the  best  chromic  yel- 
low : 
And  it  looked  like  a  picture — pray  don't  think  me 

vain — 
A  time-ripened  picture,  the  work  of  Lorraine. 
The  desk  with  your  papers — no  room  we  had  for  it, 
So  we  stowed  it  securely  away  in  the  garret. 
Come,  chase  from  your  brow,  love,  that  gathering 

frown, 
If  we  brought  the  desk  up,  can't  we  bring  the  desk 

down  ? 
But  for  litter  and  literature  that  is  the  spot : 
The  Muses  still  kindest  are  there,  are  they  not  ? — 
But  we  will  bring  it  down  again,  dearest,  you  know, 
And  before  you  return,  too,  if  you  but  say  so. 
Deep  down  in  the  earth  lies  a  miserly  elf, 
Who  would  gladly  appropriate  all  to  himself: 
He  long  from  the  sight  of  each  sage  lay  concealed, 
In  a  garden  at  length,  all  his  tricks  were  revealed. 
Where  he  stole  from  a  tree  a  fine  apple  or  pear, 
And  thought  no  one  saw   him  —  but  Newton   was 

there. 
When  your  desk  we  brought  up,  he  tried  hard  to 

prevent  us, 
But  when  coming  down,  all  his  aid  will  be  lent  us. 
You  met  him,  no  doubt,  on  the  road  as  you  went, 
He  often  helps  travelers  on  the  descent. 


6  A   LETTER  IN  RHYME. 

But  remember,  my  dear,  from  the  garret  De  Foe 
Delighted  the  world  with  his  matchless  Crusoe. 
And  Goldsmith,  our  countryman,  ne  'er  was  so  great 
As  when  warmed  by  the  sunbeams  that  shone  on  the 

slate. 
And  Savage,  poor  fellow  !  would  often  retire 
To  his  garret,  though  warmed  not  by  sunbeam  or 

fire. 
And  Burns  would  have  written  in  a  garret,  I  ween, 
In  the  house  where  he  lived,  if  a  garret  had  been. 
The  good   Ettrick   Shepherd — you  dined  with  him 

once — 
For  a  modern,  you  know,  was  not  reckoned  a  dunce ; 
You  found  him,  I  think,  in  the  midst  of  his  lore, 
In   the    room    next  the    thatch,  —  though   upon  the 

ground  floor. 
Why,  Shakespeare  himself,  yes,  immortal  old  Will, 
In  a  garret  oft  plied  his  poetical  quill. 
And  Byron,  Lord  Byron,  as  great  as  he  was, 
Stewart  says,  that  a  garret  in  Newstead  he  chose. 
Great  Newton  who  shed  on  the  world  so  much  light, 
Xo  doubt  on  the  house-top  spent  many  a  night. 
The  wisest  and  best,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it, 
When  they  wrote   the   sublime,  always  wrote  in   a 

garret. 
Nor  indeed  is  it  strange — from  Parnassian  height, 
Where  the  Muse  comes,  wing-worn,  with  the  length 

of  her  flight — 


A    LETTER  IN  RHYME.  j 

Poor  thing,  out  of  breath,  and  just  ready  to  drop, 
Why,  where  should  she  light  but  upon  the  house-top  ? 
What  bard  through  his  skylight  beholding  her  there, 
Would  not  bid  her  step  in,  and  present  her  a  chair  ? 
And  she  in  his  garret  reclining  the  while, 
Say,  could  she  do  less  than  upon  him  to  smile  ? 
Some  think  that  the  sun  from  his  home  in  the  sky, 
In  the  mine  forms  each  metal, — so,  dearest,  think  I; 
And  makes  the  rough  pebble  a  diamond,  whose  ray 
Is  only  eclipsed  by  the  brilliance  of  day. 
Now  just  only  think,  if  his  power  is  so  great 
As  to  make  gems  of  jack-stones  and  gold  out  of  slate, 
And  that  through  a  mountain,  whose  pale  frozen  brow 
Is  covered,  I  know  not  how  deep  down,  with  snow — 
Just  think  what  a  change  upon  what  you  have  writ, 
He  might  work  if  his  beams  should  converge  upon  it. 
If  with  matter   so  brilliant,  his  light  should  com- 
mingle, 
With  nothing  between  them,  you  know,  but  a  shingle, 
He  might  burnish  and  brighten,  correct  and  refine, 
'Till  like  some    mighty   star  it  would   twinkle  and 

shine. 
But  enough  of  this  nonsense — I  would  not,  you  know, 
Plant  a  thorn  in  your  breast,  or  a  curve  on  your 

brow  ; 
Too  long  we  have  lived,  my  dear  husband,  together, 
To  quarrel  at  last  for  the  work  of  a  feather. 
For  you,  I  left  country  and  kindred  and  friend, 


f 


8  A    LETTER  IN  RHYME. 

And  would  go  with  you  now  to  the  very  land's  end. 
I  have  nursed  you  in  sickness,  and  cheered  you  in 

health, 
And  spent  my  full  share— have  I  not — of  your  wealth  ? 
But  between  me  and  you,  if  a  quarrel  must  come — 
Don't  frown    on   me,  dearest ;   don't  till  you   come 

home  ! 
Oh,  not  like  a  bullet,  a  frown  can  be  spent, 
For  it  wounds  still  the  deeper  the  farther  'tis  sent ! 

You  say  Mr.  B is  at  Pittsburgh,  my  dear  ; 

I  beg,  I  entreat  you,  don't  let  him  come  near  ; 
But  if  the  advice  of  a  friend  you  will  take, 
Keep  always  between  you  some  body  opaque  ; 
And  those  that  are  made  of  impervious  stuff, 
You  will  find  them,  I  doubt  not,  in  Pittsburgh  enough. 
Don't  let  him  extinguish  the  light  of  my  sun, 
Nor  leave  me  to  grope  in  this  dark  world  alone. 
You  may  tell  Doctor  Junkin  and  Colonel  McKeen, 
Their  wives  are  as  well  as  they  ever  have  been. 
The  children  are  well  —  sometimes  bad,  sometimes 

good — 
I  praise  when  obedient,  and  chide  them  when  rude. 
Little   Tom   goes  to  infant-school,   blithesome  and 

clever, 
And  Meg  is  as  queer  and  as  bookish  as  ever. 
But  farewell,  now,  dearest,  believe  me  you  share, 
Each   day  in   my  thoughts,  and   each   night  in    my 

prayer. 


ON    THE   BIRTHDAY  OF  MY  DAUGHTER.  g 

In  health,  or  in  sickness,  by  night  and  by  da}', 
Believe  me,  your  loving  wife — Jane  Lewers  Gray. 

Easton,  May  18,  1835. 


ON    THE    BIRTHDAY    OF    MY    DAUGHTER. 


IT  is  thy  birthday,  daughter  ! 
Full  fourteen  years  have  sped, 
Since  first  1  asked  of  heaven  to  bless, 

Thy  little  flaxen  head. 
And  I  have  watched  thee,  many  a  night, 

And  nursed  thee  many  a  day, 
And  well  hast  thou  repaid  my  care, 
My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 


II. 

I  know  thou  art  not  beautiful, 

Thy  face  it  is  not  fair, 
Nor  are  thy  limbs  symmetrical, 

Nor  graceful  is  thine  air — 
The  only  ornament  thou  hast, 

Time  cannot  steal  away 
A  meek  and  quiet  spirit's  thine, 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 


10  ON    THE   BIRTHDAY  OF  MY  DAUGHTER. 

III. 

Thou  dost  obey  thy  brother's  voice, 

And  hear  thy  sister's  call, 
And  on  the  wing-  from  morn  till  night, 

The  willing-  slave  of  all — 
Thou  wilt  the  little  treat  prepare, 

Then  silent  shrink  away — 
And  eat  the  fragments  of  the  feast, 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 

IV. 

And  if  perchance  thou  dost  receive, 

An  apple,  peach,  or  pear; 
Thou  wilt  hoard  the  luscious  treasure  up, 

With  all  a  miser's  care  ; 
Yet,  when  the  little  group  are  met, 

Thou  wilt  thy  wealth  display, 
And  mark  no  portion  as  thine  own ; 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 

V. 
Yet  some  may  think,  that  thou  art  not 

What  I  have  said  thou  art ; 
And  that  a  mother's  ardent  love, 

Has  prejudiced  my  heart; 
But  I  have  others  well-beloved, 

And  fairer  far  they  say — 
I  would  that  they  were  like  to  thee, 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 


ON   THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  MY  DAUGHTER.  n 

VI. 

And  think  net,  love,  I  can  forget 

Affliction's  bitter  hour — 
When  heaven  withheld  its  healing  light, 

And  earth  its  balmy  flower — 
And  thou  did'st  soothe  the  restless  night, 

And  cheer  the  clouded  day — 
May  blessings  cluster  round  thy  path, 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray. 

VII. 

And  if — (oh,  distant  be  the  day,) 

If,  daughter,  thou  shouldst  wed  ; 
And  from  thy  parents'  sheltering  roof, 

Shouldst  be  by  stranger  led  ; 
May  heaven,  to  cheer  thine  earthly  lot, 

Thy  filial  love  repay, 
Grant  thee  a  daughter  like  thyself, 

My  gentle  Mary  Gray. 

VIII. 
And  now,  one  other  better  boon, 

My  heart  would  seek  for  thee  ; 
To  heaven,  each  morning  raise  my  voice, 

Each  evening  bend  my  knee ; 
May  Jesus  shine  upon  thy  soul, 

Take  every  stain  away  ; 
And  stamp  his  image  on  thy  breast, 

My  daughter,  Mary  Gray ! 


c 


I2  A    CHILD'S  EXCUSE    TO   HER    TEACHER. 


A  CHILD  S  EXCUSE  TO  HER  TEACHER. 

DEAR  Madame,  I'm  glad  you  are  come  back  again, 
Our  dear  little  Borough  to  brighten  ; 
And  I'm  sorry  indeed,  I'm  not  one  of  the  train, 
Which  you  by  your  labors  enlighten. 

The  cause  I'll  explain.     T'was  a  night  in  last  May, 
When  the  stars  in  the  heavens  were  beaming; 

And  I  on  my  pillow  sound  slumbering  lay, 
Of  what  was  to  come  little  dreaming. 

A  helpless  poor  creature,  all  sobbing  and  sad, 

Came  suing  to  us  for  our  favor ; 
No  home,  and  no  friends,  and  no  clothing  she  had — 

Nor  kindred  ;  if  we  would  not  have  her. 

What  land  she  had  lived  in,  it  did  not  appear, 
She  no  word  from  our  language  could  borrow; 

A  stranger  she  seemed,  from  some  happier  sphere; 
Just  arrived  in  our  region  of  sorrow. 

Tho'  fair  was  the  season,  and  calm  was  the  night, 
And  the  brilliant  stars  beaming  above  her; 

Had  we  left  her  to  wander,  how  wretched  her  plight, 
With  no  one  on  earth,  that  would  Love  her! 


C 


& 


A    CHILD'S  EXCUSE    TO  HER    TEACHER.  13 

But  her  eloquent  pleadings  Ave  did  not  resist, 
Nor  refuse  in  her  need  to  befriend  her ; 

And  I  in  the  labor  of  kindness  assist, 
And  stay  out  of  school  to  attend  her. 

And  she's  growing  in  beauty,  and  stature,  and  grace, 
And  her  sweet  pretty  tricks  give  us  pleasure ; 

Oh  !  I'm  glad  she  came  here  while  seeking  a  place, 
For  I  love  her,  the  dear  little  treasure. 

And  soon  she  '11  be  able  to  walk  all  alone, 

Nor  be  to  her  mother  much  trouble ; 
How  merrily  then,  to  my  school,  I'll  be  gone, 

My  diligence  determined  to  double. 

I'll  read,  and  I'll  write,  and  I'll  parse,  and  I'll  spell, 
And  compute  both  by  pound  and  by  dollar ; 

And  all  that  I  do,  I  will  try  to  do  well, 
In  hopes  to  become  a  good  scholar. 

And  now  my  dear  Madame,  I  bid  you  adieu, 

Nor  farther  excuse  will  be  making, 
For  what  I  am  doing,  I'm  sure  you  would  doy 

Or,  I  must  be  greatly  mistaken. 


f] 

r\ 

-3                                                                                                                              C_ 

c 

c 

14        TALK  OF  A  LITTLE  BOY  AND  LI  IS  MOTHER. 

TALK    OF    A    LITTLE    BOY    AND    HIS 

MOTHER. 

HV  yT Y  little  Son,  be  still,  I  pray, 

-LVJ-    For  this  is  God's  own  Sabbath-day  ; 

3 

You  may  not  work,  you  must  not  play, 

Nor  may  you  read  your  week-day  books, 

For  God  into  the  chamber  looks 

Where  you  are  sitting  all  alone, 

And  all  you  do  to  him  is  known. 

Oh,  Mother,  is  He  then  so  near 

That  he  my  very  thoughts  can  hear? 

Each  naughty  look,  each  wicked  word, 

His  eye  hath  seen,  his  ear  hath  heard. 

He  sits  upon  a  throne  on  high, 

By  the  blue  curtain  of  the  sky 

Hid  from  your  view ;  but  yet  his  eye 

Looks  through  its  lustrous  canopy. 

That  little  sparrow  sitting  there 

He  condescends  to  make  his  care ; 

The  very  hairs  upon  your  head 

Are  marked,  and  known,  and  numbered. 

c 

You  cannot  from  his  presence  fly, 

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TALK  OF  A  LITTLE  BOY  AND  HIS  MOTHER.        15 

Night  cannot  hide  you  from  his  eye ; 
Where  e'er  you  go,  where  e'er  you  stay, 
His  hand  upholds,  or  guides  your  way. 
Oh,  think,  my  son !  that  piercing  Eye 
Which  hateth  all  impurity 
Sees,  hears,  and  knows  your  every  thought : 
You  cannot  be  where  God  is  not. 
Thus  ever  think,  then  will  you  fear 
To  say  what  God  abhors  to  hear. 

Mother,  I've  often  lain  at  night, 
And  wondered  if  each  star  so  bright 
Was  not  an  angel's  glittering  eye, 
Watching  our  earth  so  steadfastly ; 
Nor  ever  turns  that  gaze  away, 
From  evening,  till  the  break  of  day. 
Slowly  and  faint,  at  morning's  dawn, 
As  if  reluctant,  one  by  one, 
Seem  they  to  go,  yet  till  the  last 
Each  sorrowing  look  is  downward  cast ; 
So  soft,  so  mournful,  and  so  fair, 
They  fade,  and  mount,  and  disappear, 
Leaving  me  doubtful,  as  I  gaze, 
If  tears  or  distance,  dim  their  blaze. 
Are  they  not  sentinels  who  keep 
Watch  over  man,  awake,  asleep  ? 
Their  duty  o'er,  at  dawn  of  day 
They  spread  their  wings,  and  soar  away, 


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7 


1 6        TALK  OF  A  LITTLE  BOY  AXD  HIS  MOTHER. 

To  tell  before  God's  spotless  throne 

Of  all  by  every  mortal  done. 

Oh !  who  would  go  at  dead  of  night, 

By  the  faint  star's  uncertain  light, 

To  do  a  deed  of  blood  and  crime  ? 

Oh !  let  him  choose  the  noonday  prime. 

Though  thousands  cluster  round  his  path, 

He  might  escape  their  kindled  wrath. 

Oh,  to  go  out  beneath  the  skies 

And  meet  those  watchful,  sleepless  eyes, 

And  feel  those  very  eyes  may  be 

Weeping  that  moment  tears  for  me ! 

Oh,  thus  to  think  at  dawn  of  day 

They'll  fly  away,  away,  away, 

Up  to  the  throne,  and  there  give  in 

The  dreadful  record  of  my  sin  ! 

No,  little  son,  those  stars  are  bright, 

Yet  are  not  angels'  eyes  of  light, 

But  beauteous  orbs,  which  had  their  birth 

Perhaps  before  our  native  earth  : 

Unstained  and  pure  they  nobly  stand 

As  when  they  left  their  Maker's  hand. 

'Tis  said,  among  them,  when  at  first 

Our  world  a  newborn  planet  burst, 

A  younger  sister  to  them  given, 

Glowing,  and  pure,  and  warm,  from  heaven, 

So  pure,  that,  e'en  at  God's  command, 


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TALK  OF  A  LITTLE  BOY  AX  J)  HIS  MOTHER 

It  bounded,  finished  from  his  hand, 
He  gazed  upon  it  as  it  stood, 
And,  solemnly,  pronounced  it  good ! 
Tis  written,  when  thus  suddenly 
It  lighted  up  the  eastern  sky, 
The  morning  stars  which  saw  it  come, 
Burnished,  and  brilliant,  from  its  home, 
And  heard  the  Sons  of  God  on  high 
Shout  loud  and  long  their  notes  of  joy, 
They,  too,  in  sweet  harmonious  measure, 
Gave  utterance  to  their  boundless  pleasure. 
Years  sped,  alas  !  how  many  fall ; 
Alas !  how  changed,  how  silent  all 
Move  round  and  round  this  faded  ball ! 
Night  after  night  no  voice  is  heard, 
No  song  of  joy,  no  cheering  word ; 
But  even  seem  they  from  the  skies 
To  bend  on  earth  their  pensive  eyes, 
And  gaze  in  mournful  stillness  now 
Upon  their  sister's  altered  brow. 
Our  lovely  orb,  alas  !  my  son, 
Its  flowers  are  fading  every  one ! 
Our  God,  who  made  this  world  so  fair, 
Made  man  a  sinless  being  there ; 
He  placed  him  in  a  bright  abode 
He  gave  him  access  to  his  God, 
And  flowers  he  gave  of  every  hue, 
And  fruits  in  rich  abundance,  too; 


17 


1 8        TALK  OF  A  LITTLE  BOY  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 

And  every  beast  to  him  he  gave, 
And  every  fish  beneath  the  wave; 
One  tree  alone,  he  said,  "  Touch  not ;" 
But  man  that  warning  voice  forgot: 
He  plucked,  he  ate;  all  nature  groaned, 
Pierced  by  a  deep  and  cureless  wound ; 
And  God,  from  his  abode  on  high, 
Said  man  for  his  offense  should  die. 

But  why,  dear  mother,  tell  me  why, 
When  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 
All  pure  and  beautiful  and  bright, 
The  glittering  dew-drops  of  the  night, 
Why  should  a  world  like  ours  be  made 
So  bright,  so  fair,  and  just  to  fade? 
For  God,  whose  piercing  eye  can  see 
All  round  and  round  eternity, 
He  must  have  seen,  have  known  it  all, 
Its  rise,  its  radiance,  and  its  fall, 
Its  short-lived  hour  of  glory  o'er, 
Its  light  put  out,  to  shine  no  more. 


8 


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JOHN  JAMES  GRA  Y.                                   jq 

JOHN    JAMES    GRAY. 

AN  ACROSTIC    ON    HIS  BIRTH-DAY. 

JOHNNY,  little  Johnny,  I  love  you  very  well; 
*J     Oh!  for  her  babe  a  mother's  love,  what  tongue 

3 

its  depths  can  tell ! 

H  ope  springeth  in  her  bosom  while  gazing  on  thy 

brow. 

N  e'er  disappoint  that  hope,  my  love  ;  be  good  as 

thou  art  now. 

J  ust  like  an  opening  blossom  expanding  in  the  sun, 

A  bud  of  peerless  beauty,  art  thou,  my  little  one ; 

M  oist  with  the  dews  of  heaven,  and  sparkling  in  its 

ray, 

E  re  aught  of  earth  has  stolen  one  precious  gem  away ; 

S  till  like  thy  morning  promise  be  thy  advancing  day. 

G  entle  little  Johnny,  what  shall  I  seek  for  thee  ? 

Rank,  riches,  honor,  and  renown?  Such  things  de- 

ceitful be  ! 

A  round  thy  brow  may  innocence  a  lasting  garland 

twine ; 

Y  oung  shrine  of  all  my  fondest  hopes,  may  Jesus' 

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love  be  thine  ! 

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2o                   A  QUESTION  AND  AN  ANSWER. 

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E  arth  cannot  rob  my  darling  of  that  which  he  bc- 

A  jewel  ever  brilliant,  a  never-fading  rose;    [stows — 

S  ecure,  though  all  the  world  conspire  to  steal  that 

gem  away, 

T  hat  rose  shall  bloom  and  shed  perfume  on  life's 

most  wintry  day. 

O  h  !  may  my  little  lamb  be  led  within  thy  fold  to  rest ; 

N  0  earthly  bed  so  soft,  so  safe,  as  the  Redeemer's 

breast ! 

March,  1838. 

A    OUESTION    AND    AN    ANSWER* 

6  £  nr^y  O  we  miss  you  ?"    Is  that  what  you're  asking  ? 

J '    Yes,  Honey,  that's  just  what  we  do  ; 

And  our  hearts  and  our  thoughts  are  this  moment 

All  wandering  away  after  you. 

Oh  !  the  chain  that  unites  us  together 

But  strengthens  the  farther  you  roam, 

And  we  whisper  at  night,  noon  and  morning, 

"  Oh,  would  he  were  with  us  at  home !" 

When  the  sunset  is  hid  by  the  mountain, 

And  gaslight  like  his  tries  to  glow ; 

*  Written  to  my  Son  in  reply  to  a  letter  containing  the  lines,  "  Do 

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They  Miss  Me  At  Home  /" 

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A   QUESTION  AND  AN  ANSWER.  21 

When  your  sisters  sit  down  to  their  music, 
And  sing  us,  "  The  songs  that  you  know ;" 
When,  though  other  friends  may  be  round  us 
Whose  voices  accord  with  the  strain, 
Yet  one  pleasant  tone  still  is  missing — 
<;  Oh,  would  you  were  with  us  again !" 

And  ever  at  morning  we  miss  you, 
When  smoketh  the  hot  buckwheat  cake, 
And  Mary  Fitzgerald  keeps  counting 
How  many  she  has  not  to  bake ; 
When  cake  after  cake  disappearing, 
In  rapid  succession,  we  see, 
Such  scenes,  my  dear  boy,  I  assure  you, 
Most  strongly  remind  us  of  thee. 

And  at  dinner,  when  around  us  is  floating 
The  fragrance  of  turkey  or  chick, 
We  sigh,  as  we  send  from  the  table 
Some  joint  which  we  know  you  could  pick. 
Yes,  we  miss  your  quick  wit  and  gay  laughter, 
Our  nectar  more  brisk  than  champagne, 
And  our  tears  and  our  smiles  melt  together, 
Like  Spring's  mingled  sunshine  and  rain. 

We  miss  you,  macree  and  mavourneen, 

Thou  light  of  the  home  and  the  heart, 

And  we  chide  them,  these  slow-moving  moments, 

That  keep  loving  kindred  apart, 


D 


22  YOU  ASA'  ME  FOR  MY  DAUGHTER. 

So  just  come, — and  as  soon  as  convenient, 
Though  shortly  again  you  must  roam  ; 
And  the  kiss  and  the  smile  and  the  welcome 
Shall  tell  if  we  miss  you  at  home. 


YOU    ASK    ME    FOR    MY    DAUGHTER. 

YOU  ask  me  for  my  daughter! 
But  oh  !  she  is  to  me 
What  fragrance  is  unto  the  rose, 

What  bark  is  to  the  tree, 
What  rain  is  to  the  thirsty  ground, 

What  dew  is  to  the  flower — 
A  beam  of  sunshine  to  my  heart 
In  sorrow's  darkest  hour. 

You  ask  me  for  my  daughter ! 

Oh  !  ask  the  merchant's  wealth  ; 
Ask  from  the  long-afflicted  one 

His  late  recovered  health  ; 
Ask  of  the  blind,  who  long  has  walked 

Bereft  of  heaven's  own  light, 
That  gift,  the  dearest,  sweetest,  best, 

His  just-returning  sight. 

You  ask  me  for  my  daughter, 
And  say,  "  You  are  not  alone  ; 


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F<9£/  ASK  ME  FOR  MY  DA  UGHTER.                 23 

She  is  not  fairest  of  the  flock, 

And  not  the  only  one." 
Oh  !  choose  then,  choose,  the  fairest  flower 

That  blooms  around  my  cot, 
To  be  transported  to  thy  bower, 

And  I'll  refuse  it  not. 

You  say  you  love  my  daughter ! 

Alas !  I  know  you  do  ; 
And  she  is  just  as  dear  to  me, 

As  she  can  be  to  you — 
My  joy.  my  comfort,  and  my  stay, 

My  sweetest  earthly  hope  : 
How  can  I  part  with  what  I  prize? 

How  give  my  darling  up  ? 

You  fain  would  have  my  daughter. 

Oh  !  can  I  let  her  go  ? 
Each  shrinking  fibre  of  my  frame 

In  anguish  answers,  No  ! 
Heaven  gave  this  little  gem  to  me 

To  light  my  pathway  dim  ; 
How  can  I  yield  His  precious  gift, 

Save  only  unto  Him  ? 

* 

Oh !  seek  some  other  s  daughter 

Within  thy  bower  to  shine, 
More  stately,  gay,  and  beautiful, 

9 

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And  not  so  loved  as  mine ; 

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24  TO  MY  ONLY  SISTER. 

You're  worthy  of  a  worthier  maid, 
If  maid  may  worthier  be  : 

Oh  !  seek  a  richer,  brighter  bride, 
And  leave  my  cliild  witJi  me  ! 


TO    MY    ONLY    SISTER. 

WE  are  old  and  gray,  we  are  old  and  gray, 
And  our  light  is  the  light  of  the  sunset  ray  ; 
Our  feet  are  weary,  our  blood  is  cold, 
Our  limbs  are  feeble — yes,  yes,  we  are  old, 
And  none  remain,  who,  in  childish  glee, 
Once  frolicked  and  laughed  with  you  and  me. 

We  are  old  and  gray,  we  are  old  and  gray, 
And  weak  and  helpless ;  but  where  are  they  ? 
In  the  lone  church-yard  they  have  found  a  bed, 
With  a  marble  canopy  overhead  ; 
They  sleep,  they  rest,  and  toil  and  care 
Disturb  no  more  the  sleepers  there. 

They  all  have  gone ;  yes,  they  all  have  gone ; 

Friends,  parents,  kindred,  one  by  one 

Have  laid  them  down,  and  we  wait  in  vain — 

They  come  not,  they  come  not  to  us  again ; 

But  from  that  far-off  spirit-land 

They  beckon  to  us  with  a  pale  cold  hand. 


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TO  MY  ONLY  SISTER.  2$ 

We  may  not  linger,  we  must  not  stay, 

We  cannot  tarry  upon  our  way ; 

To  the  land  we  are  leaving  we  look  not  back, 

Nor  turn  us  again  on  our  downward  track; 

But  onward,  onward,  onward  go, 

Till  we  sleep  where  those  sleepers  sleep  below. 

And  wherefore  weep,  and  wherefore  weep  ? 

Would  we  break  the  rest  where  our  dearest  sleep  ?  , 

Would  we  wake  them  up  in  a  world  of  pain, 

And  bind  them  around  with  our  mortal  chain, 

When  the  weary  voyage  of  life  is  o'er, 

And  each  bark  safe-moored  on  the  shining  shore  ? 

No,  sister,  no ;  we  are  old  and  gray, 
Nor  far  is  the  end  of  our  wearisome  way  ; 
For  the  silver  cord  is  loosening  fast, 
Each  strand  unwinding  must  break  at  last; 
And  the  golden  bowl  is  day  by  day 
Wasting  the  oil  of  our  life  away  ! 

Remember  we  not,  remember  we  not, 
Our  childhood's  home,  that  dearest  spot — 
How  a  mother's  love,  and  a  father's  care, 
Guided  and  guarded,  and  blessed  us  there ; 
And  though  oft  ungrateful,  willful,  wild, 
They  chided,  yet  pardoned  each  wayward  child. 

Ah !  no,  we  were  not  what  we  ought  to  be ; 
There  were  faults  and  follies  in  you  and  me, 


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26 


TO  MY  ONLY  SISTER. 


Unlearned  lessons,  and  tasks  undone  ; 
Neglected  duties  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Yet,  when  faults  and' follies  were  all  confessed, 
Were  we  ever  spurned  from  our  father's  breast? 

Ah  !  no,  for  the  kind  good-night  was  said, 
And  the  blessing  asked  on  each  bowed  head, 
And  the  parting  kiss  was  fondly  pressed 
On  each  young  brow  ere  we  sought  our  rest ; 
And  with  pardon  sealed,  and  faults  forgiven, 
Our  sleep  was  sweet,  our  dreams  were  heaven. 

And  oh  !  shall  an  earthly  father's  love 

Transcend  His  mercy  who  reigns  above  ? 

When  we  kneel  at  His  footstool  with  penitent  tears, 

Confessing  the  sins  and  the  follies  of  years, 

With  nothing  to  offer,  and  nothing  to  claim, 

But  faith  in  our  Saviour,  and  hope  in  his  name? 

And  as  once  we  knelt  at  our  father's  knee 
In  the  loving  faith  of  our  infancy  ; 
So  come  let  us  kneel  to  our  Father  above, 
So  plead  for  his  pardon,  so  trust  in  his  love ; 
And  meekly,  humbly,  hand  in  hand, 
Retire  to  rest  in  the  better  land. 


LITTLE  MAGGY. 


27 


LITTLE    MAGGY. 

WRITTEN  ON   HER   SIXTH   BIRTHDAY,   AT   HER   OWN   REQUEST. 

DID  you  ever  see  our  Maggy? 
She's  a  puny  little  thing : 
Her  feet  are  very,  very  long, 
And  her  legs  are  very  thin. 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  indigo, 

Her  face  is  small  and  white  ; 
"And  she  will  be  full  six  years  old, 
At  half-past  ten  to-night. 

Though  stockings  blue  she  sometimes  wears, 

She  knows  not  how  to  spell ; 
But  she  can  say  her  alphabet, 

And  knows  each  letter  well. 

Though  she  has  gone  to  infant  school, 

She  scarce  can  say  a  rhyme  ; 
But  then  for  learning  and  such  things, 

There's  plenty  yet  of  time. 

We  measured  her  this  morning, 

As  sure  as  you  're  alive, 
The  little,  fair-haired,  slender  thing, 

Was  only  three  feet  five. 


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28  LITTLE  MAGGY. 

Oft  will  the  tear  unbidden  start, 

To  Maggy's  azure  eye  ; 
Oh,  shame  that  any  girl  so  tall 

Should  for  a  trifle  cry  ! 

Oh,  Maggy  !  I  remember  well, 
The  time  that  thou  wert  born ; 

The  sky  was  dark  with  many  a  cloud, 
And  bitter  blew  the  storm. 

Those  tears,  my  little  tender  one, 
Thy  young  pale  cheeks  that  wet, 

Betoken  stormy  days,  I  fear, 
In  store  for  Maggy  yet. 

Ah,  Maggy  !  I  remember  well, 
When  oped  thine  infant  eye  ; 

'Twas  clear  and  bright  as  any  orb, 
That  sparkled  in  the  sky. 

I  watched  its  wandering  glances, 
Though  it  did  not  glance  on  me ; 

I  thought  it  was  as  sweet  an  eye, 
As  ever  eyes  did  see. 

Ah,  Maggy  !  I  remember  well, 
Just  here  upon  my  breast ; 

I  lulled  my  little  stranger-girl, 
To  her  first  of  earthly  rest. 


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LITTLE  MAGGY.                                      2Q 

And  watched  the  blue  veins  wandering 

Upon  her  slumbering  brow  ; 
Come  hither,  darling,  let  me  see, 

Can  mother  trace  them  now  ? 

•    Why,  yes,  the  rogues  are  hiding  here, 
Beneath  the  flaxen  hair ; 
And  there  is  one  across  her  nose 
And  there,  and  there,  and  there ! 

I  Ve  heard  it  said,  my  Maggy ! 

'Twas  folly,  I  suppose  ; 
That  never  maid  with  bright  blue  veins 

Should  wear  her  wedding  clothes. 

Ah  !  well-a-day,  my  Maggy, 

If  it  should  be  thy  lot — 
To  lie  in  yonder  lone  church-yard, 

By  all  but  me  forgot. 

What !  get  a  shroud  for  thee,  my  love  ! 

A  coffin  long  and  thin ! 
And  make  a  deep,  dark,  lonely  grave, 

And  lay  my  Maggy  in  ! 

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Come,  darling,  nearer,  nearer  yet, 
And  let  thy  sweet,  warm  breath 
Chase  from  my  soul  these  visions  strange 

Of  sickness,  woe,  and  death. 

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20                            FATE  OF  JENNY  GEDDES. 

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For  I  have  seen  the  darkened  room, 

• 

Where  thou,  my  child,  wert  lying; 

And  watched  thee  till  the  spirit's  light 

Was  from  thy  blue  eye  flying. 

But  no,  my  little  Maggy, 

I  shall  not  see  thee  die ; 

This  gentle  hand  of  thine  must  close 

Thy  dying  mother's  eye. 

And  thou  must  see  her  laid  to  rest, 

Beneath  some  willow  tree ; 

And  shed  as  kind  a  tear  for  her, 

As  she  would  shed  for  thee. 

. 

FATE    OF    JENNY    GEDDES. 

I. 
~T)OOR  Jenny  !  she  is  dead  and  gone, 
-L        And  laid  beneath  the  clay ; 

Her  coat  was  speckled  black  and  brown, 

Or  yellow,  tinged  with  gray. 

She  was  a  fair  and  comely  cat, 

Though  some  pronounced  her  plain  ; 

Alas  !  /  feel,  "  we  ne  'er  shall  look 

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Upon  her  like  again." 

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FATE  OF  JENNY  GEDDES.                           3 1 
II. 

You  ask  me  of  poor  Jenny's  death, 

Each  fact  I  will  display, 
The  time,  the  circumstance  record, 

The  reason  and  the  way. 
It  happened  on  a  night  in  June, 

When  fragrant  flowers  appear, 
At  Easton,  Pennsylvania, 

The  1850th  year. 

j 

1 

III. 
Now,  Jenny  had  been  sick,  all  day, 

And  often  did  she  come, 
And  lay  her  down  beside  my  chair, 

All  in  the  dining-room. 
And  told  me  of  her  grief  and  pain, 

As  plain  as  cat  could  speak  ; 
Till  tears  came  starting  to  my  eye, 

And  rolling  down  my  cheek. 

IV. 

And  thus  I,  unto  her,  did  say, 
"  You  're  sick  as  cat  can  be  ; 

So  up,  unto  the  garret  come, 
I  '11  make  a  bed  for  thee." 

And  up  the  stairs  together,  then, 
We  went,  the  cat  and  I, 

A  box,  I  got,  and  in  it  laid, 

1 

Some  flannel,  soft,  and  dry. 

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32                           /./r^  <9^  JENNY  GEDDES. 

V. 

But  oh  !  poor  Jenny  she  would  not 

Within  the  box  abide, 
And  as  I  walked  adown  the  stairs, 

She  trotted  by  my  side. 
Then  unto  Mary's  little  room, 

Full  hastily  she  sped, 
And  jumped  on  the  white  counterpane 

That  covered  Mary's  bed. 

3 

VI. 

1 

"  Oh  !  Jenny,  Jenny,"  I  did  cry, 

"  This  may  not,  must  not  be ; 

This  room  I  did  not  paper  new, 

Nor  make  that  bed  for  thee. 

Get  out,  get  out,  you  saucy  cat." 

She  heeded  not  my  cry  ; 

• 

But  on  the  snow-white  counterpane 

She  lay  determinedly. 

VII. 

With  that  my  anger  did  arise, 

And  like  a  lion  bold, 

I  shook  the  cover,  stamped  my  foot, 

And  eke  began  to  scold, 

While  Jenny,  up  unto  my  face, 

She  raised  her  pleading  eye, 

Which  told  me,  though  I  heeded  not, 

c 

That  she  would  shortly  die. 

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9 

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FATE  OF  JEXXY  GEDDES.  33 

VIII. 

Oh,  Jenny,  Jenny !  had  I  dreamed 

That  such  a  thing  could  be  ; 
The  very  best  bed  in  the  house 

I  would  have  spread  for  thee. 
My  eye  was  blind,  my  heart  was  hard, 

For  I  the  truth  will  tell ;  , 
So  loudly  raising  up  my  voice, 
•  I  shouted,  "  Isabelle." 

IX. 

And  she,  though  deaf  at  other  times, 

My  mandate  did  obey  ; 
And  thus,  that  cruel  serving-maid, 

Relentlessly  did  say  : 
"  There  is  a  box,  a  lidless  box, 

The  dining-room  above, 
I  '11  put  her  in,  and  then  its  mouth, 

Up  to  the  wall  I  '11  shove." 

x. 

And  so  she  took  poor  Jenny  up, 

Without  or  stop  or  stay, 
And  in  her  strong  and  sinewy  arms, 

She  bore  her  straight  away, 
But  I  relenting  cried,  "  Stop,  stop, 

Until  a  bed  I  make*; 
Don't  hurt  her,  now,  good  Isabelle, 

Oh,  don't,  for  pity's  sake  !" 


34  FATE  OF  J  EX  NY  GEDDES. 

XI. 

Now,  Jenny  Geddes,  whom  you  know 

Was  no  mean  sneaking  cat, 
Resolved  to  die,  as  she  had  lived, 

A  right-down  democrat. 
The  more  she  put  her  in  the  box, 

The  more  she  would  not  stay  ; 
The  more  she  laid  her  on  the  bed, 

The  more  she  would  not  lay. 

XII. 

But  Isabelle  was  Irish  born, 

And  fresh  from  Donegal ; 
And  would  she  let  a  Yankee  cat, 

"  Bate  her  at  all,  at  all." 
And  fierce  and  high  the  conflict  rose, 

But  Erin  won  the  day  ; 
And  Jenny,  in  the  lidless  box, 

Was  stowed  secure  away. 

XIII. 
But  oh  !  her  spirit  it  would  not 

Abide  the  box  within, 
So  she  began  to  jump  and  scratch, 

And  make  a  mighty  din  ; 
While  we,  regardless  of  her  woes, 

Went  down  the  kitchen  stair, 
And  left  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 

The  wretched  captive  there. 


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FATE  OF  JENNY  GEDDES.                           35 
XIV. 

The  sun  was  hastening  to  his  bed  ; 

The  stars  came  peeping  out, 
And  winking  to  each  other  asked, 

"  What's  all  that  noise  about?" 
Each  little  zephyr  pressed  his  nose 

Against  the  window  pane, 
But  seeing  that  he  could  not  see, 

He  fluttered  off  again. 

XV. 
Oh !  such  a  screaming,  scratching  time, 

I  trow,  you  never  heard  ; 
Meek,  passive,  Mrs.  Workheiser, 

Got  rily,  on  my  word, 
And  shaking  little  Martin  up, 

Thus  dreamily  she  says  : 
"  I  vanders  fat  dat  noise  can  pe, 

In  der  at  Dr.  Crays." 

XVI. 

Now  Tom  came  from  the  College  down, 

A  tired  and  weary  wight, 
And  sped  him  to  his  bed  amain, 

For  it  was  late  at  night? 
He  went  to  bed,  as  I  have  said, 

But  not  a  wink  could  sleep ; 
For  why  ?  Poor  Jenny  in  the  box, 

y 

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Did  such  a  racket  keep.    - 

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o£  FATE  OF  JEN XV  GEDDES. 

XVII. 

So  up  again  from  sleepless  bed, 

He  started  angrily, 
And  ran  into  the  outer  room, 

To  see  what  there  might  be. 
A  lamp  was  burning  in  his  hand, 

Wrath  burned  within  his  eye : 
"  Now,  be  ye  spuke,  or  robber  bold, 

I'm  bound  to  do,  or  die." 

XVIII. 

The  lamp  he  held  above  his  head, 

And  peered  the  room  around  ; 
But  all  was  hushed  ;  deep  silence  reigned  ; 

He  heard  nor  voice,  nor  sound. 
As  even  you  cat's  back  have  seen, 

When  stranger  dog  was  there  ; 
So  rose  upon  his  reeking  brow, 

Each  red  particular  hair. 

XIX. 
You  '11  think  it  strange,  when  nought  was  there, 

That  he  should  frightened  be ; 
But  that  was  just  the  reason  that 

A  frightened  man  was  he. 
Show  but  an  object  real  to  fear, 

And  man  will  fear  it  not ; 
While  foolish  tales,  or  ghost,  or  fay, 

Are  never  quite  forgot. 


FATE  OF  JENNY  GEDDES.  37 

XX. 

But  'twas  not  long  till  up  arose 

Again  that  horrid  din, 
And  Tom  perceived  the  cause  concealed 

That  fatal  box  within  ; 
So  plucking  up  his  courage  then, 

He  ventured  dauntlessly 
To  pull  the  box  out  from  the  wall, 

To  see  what  he  could  see. 

XXI. 

Now  Jenny,  glad  to  be  released, 

Came  bouncing  on  the  floor ; 
The  window  up  this  youth  he  threw, 

Forgetful  of  the  door, 
And  out  into  the  yard  let  fall 

Poor  Jenny  there  and  then  : 
Alas  !  alas  !  instead  of  ink, 

Let  tears  supply  my  pen. 

XXII. 

Sad  mewings  woke  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  rosy-curtained  bed  ; 
She  pulled  her  cloudy  nightcap  off, 

And  scratched  her  shining  head. 
And  when  her  radiant  fingers  passed, 

How  gloriously  unrolled 
Her  ringlets  bright,  of  dazzling  light, 

Like  clouds  of  wavy  gold. 


& 


38  FATE  OF  JENNY  GEDDES. 

XXIII. 

Alas  !  her  shrinking  eye  beheld 

A  sad  and  doleful  sight : 
Poor  Jenny,  wet  with  dewy  tears, 

Wept  by  the  pitying  night. 
A  veil  of  mourning,  inky  hue, 

A  piece  of  thunder-cloud 
Concealed  each  tear,  yet  might  you  hear 

Her  waitings  long  and  loud. 

XXIV. 

But  Jenny  lay  in  dying  state, 

Throughout  the  live-long  day  ; 
We  strove,  alas  !  we  strove  in  vain 

To  find  a  remedy. 
We  brought  her  food,  we  brought  her  drink, 

We  stroked  her  tenderly, 
But  she  from  all  our  kindness  turned 

Away  indignantly. 

xxv. 

But  passed  away,  that  long,  long  day, 

And  passed  away  the  night, 
And  still  poor  Jenny  lived,  and  lived 

On,  on  till  dawning  light. 
Oh  !  glassy,  glassy  grew  her  eye, 

Her  bosom  ceased  to  beat ; 
She  died  as  every  cat  must  die. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck  eight. 


TO  DEAR  A  UNT  HANNAH.  39 


TO  DEAR  AUNT  HANNAH. 

MY  dearest  aunt  Hannah  and  sweet  cousin  Sue, 
I  long  have  been  thinking  of  writing  to  you  ; 
But  now  that  my  pen  in  my  hand  I  have  got, 
What  to  say,  how  to  say  it,  indeed  I  know  not. 

In  making  excuse  I'm  not  very  well  versed, 
But  still  I  must  tell  you  what  hindered  me  first: 
I  woke  up  one  morning  with  headache  and  fever, 
Each  hour,  as  it  passed,  proved  me  sicker  than  ever. 

Night  came,  and  next  morning,  just  think  of  my  plight, 
Your  poor  little  Lizzie  looked  just  like  a  fright — 
Face,  hands,  feet,  and  head,  breast,  body,  and  shoulder, 
With  chicken-pox  covered,  you  'd  start  to  behold  her ! 

But  still  I  felt  better,  though  worse  I  did  seem. 
I  thought  of  dear  Susan,  and  longed  for  ice  cream. 
But  all  that  is  passed,  save  some  spots,  just  to  tell 
Where  the  chickens  have  picked  me,  and  now  I  am 
well. 

A  prisoner,  however,  I  day  after  day 
Up  in  the  third  story  obliged  was  to  stay, 


i 


40 


TO  DEAR  AC  XT  HAWAII. 


Lest  dear  little  Jeannie,  my  cousin,  you  see, 
Should  pick  up  the  spots  as  they  faded  from  me. 

Yet  up  at  the  window  I  sat  half  the  day, 
Whilst  she  in  the  garden  would  frolick  and  play. 
I  was  not  quite  lonely  while  Jane  T  could  see, 
Her  golden  curls  tossing  in  pastime  for  me. 

There's  one  thing,  however,  I  want  just  to  tell, 
How  sorry  I  am  I  said  not  farewell 
To  friends  who  so  gently  and  constantly  strove 
To  comfort  and  cheer  by  their  kindness  and  love 
A  poor,  helpless,  troublesome,  lame  little  creature, 
With  nought  to  commend  her  in  form  or  in  feature. 

But  I  know  that  you  love  me,  and  surely  I  do, 
Deep,  deep  in  my  heart,  feel  how  much  I  love  you  ; 
But  all  I  can  offer,  and  all  I  can  say, 
Is  I  think  of  your  kindness  by  night  and  by  day. 

Farewell,  dear  aunt  Hannah;  farewell,  cousin  Sue; 
Forget  not  to  come,  I'll  keep  looking  for  you  ; 
And  where  'er  I  may  be,  in  the  country  or  town, 
I  am  still  your  affectionate  Lizzie  Rush  Browne. 


w 


DEAR  COUSIN  SUE. 


41 


DEAR    COUSIN    SUE. 

MY  dear  Cousin  Susan,  I  beg  you  '11  excuse 
My  seeming  neglect,  nor  a  pardon  refuse ; 
I  showed  Ma  your  letter,  and  so  all  is  righted  ; 
When  her  girl  is  preferred  she  ne'er  deems  herself 

slighted. 
But  an  answer  to  hers  she  may  still  be  expecting, 
So  just  set  that  thing  down  as  worth  recollecting. 
Your  questions  are  leaders  suggestive  and  nice, 
And  I'll  ansAver  them  all,  if  I  can,  in  a  trice. 


Alas  !  my  dear  father  is  far,  far  away, 

And  farther  and  farther,  each  night  and  each  day, 

On  the  wild-rolling  ocean  which  every  wind  vexes, 

Still  onward  and  onward  away  unto  Texas, 

And  the  poor  little  girl — for  I  know  whom  you  mean — 

May  look  for  his  coming,  and  long  look  in  vain. 

The  photographs  next  is  in  order,  I  see  ; 

We  have  got  them  all  right,  many  thanks  unto  thee. 

Ma  thinks  them  the  best  he  has  ever  had  taken, 

So  like  and  so  true  they  could  not  be  mistaken ; 

So  like,  so  unlike  ;  it  is  Pa  in  each  feature ; 

But  oh  !  how  unlike  in  its  essence  and  nature ! 

They  give  us  no  smile,  they  return  no  caress ; 

Unmoved  he  beholds  us  in  joy  or  distress. 


42  DEAR  COUSIN  SUE. 

It  is,  and  it  is  not,  my  own  darling  father, 
And   my    heart  from   the    shadow    small  solace   can 
gather. 

0  father,  my  father,  come1  back  unto  me ! 

Oh,  to  rest  on  your  bosom,  to  sit  on  your  knee ! 
Oh,  to  hear  your  dear  voice  and  to  see  your  dear  face, 
And  to  feel  your  arms  clasp  me  in  loving  embrace ! 
Come  back  !  oh,  come  back  to  your  poor  little  girl! 
And  I  care  not  for  glory  or  jewel  or  pearl. 

1  want  your  own  self,  kind,  loving,  and  true, 

And  I  want— I  want  all  things  just  while  I  want  you. 

Excuse  me,  dear  Cousin,  for  almost  I  thought 
I  was  writing  to  Pa,  but  find  I  am  not. 
I  have  many  kind  friends  and  I  ought  not  to  say, 
Nor  think  I  want  all  things,  because  Pa  is  away. 

The  next  is  the  fair ;  well,  'tis  over  and  past, 

And  well  I  attended  from  first  unto  last. 

We  had  all  things  the  nicest— such  cakes,  white  as 

snow, 
All  covered  with  ice  made  of  sugar,  you  know  ; 
And  the  sewing-doll,  she  was  the  wonder  of  all, 
And  most  came  to  see  her,  some  great  and  some  small ! 
A  right  model  sewing-girl,  busy  and  clever, 
Uncomplaining,  untiring,  working  for  ever. 
Ma  was  her  exhibitor  till  she  got  weary, 
Then  I  took  her  up,  and  she  worked  like  a  fairy. 


DEAR  COUSIN  SUE. 


43 


Some    said   we   should    sell   her,  but   grandma  said 

Never ! 
She's  Cousin  Sue's  babe,  and  we  '11  keep  her  forever. 
The  money  she  earned  was  just — let  me  see, 
Two  dollars  a-day,  and  she  worked  for  us  three ! 
She  was  almost  worn  out ;  so  we  laid  her  to  rest 
Above  in  the  garret,  in  grandmamma's  chest. 
And  there  let  her  sleep,  free  from  labor  and  care, 
Till  we  want  her  to  work  when  we  next  have  a  fair. 


3 


I  am  glad  Cousin  Alice  has  got  so  much  better — 
You  mention  that  fact  at  the  end  of  your  letter  ; 
And  poor  Maggie  Wilson,  I'm  happy  to  hear, 
Rolls  hoop  for  her  pastime  ;  I  wish  I  could  see  her, 
And  share  in  her  sport ;  Cousin  Jeannie  can  play, 
But  I,  Cousin  Sue,  never  have  rolled  it  a  day. 
We  all  send  of  the  best  of  good  wishes  to  you 
And  Aunt  Hannah  ;  and  now,  dearest  Cousin,  Adieu  ! 


II. 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS. 


:z) 


THE    CHURCH. 

WHO  cometh  from   Bozrah  with  garments  of 
red? 
Like  his  in  the  wine-press  accustomed  to  tread  ? 
From  Edom  who  cometh  ?  the  mighty  to  save ; 
His  raiment  is  wet  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

But  where  are  the  legions  that  fought  in  the  war  ? 
The  horsemen  of  Zion,  the  death-dealing  car? 
The  great  and  the  mighty  ?  he  helper  had  none, 
Majestic  in  glory,  he  conquered  alone. 

And  who  on  his  bosom  leans  feeble  and  fair, 
Reclining  in  beauty  and  confidence  there? 
'Tis  the  bride,  the  beloved,  on  her  heavenward  road, 
The  ransomed  from  ruin,  the  chosen  of  God. 


He  shed  his  best  blood  for  her  sins  to  atone, 
He  died  to  redeem  her,  to  make  her  his  own ; 
Defilement  and  sin  from  her  soul  he  transfers, 
Though  red  be  his  raiment,  unspotted  is  hers. 

(47) 


48 


HYMN. 


Go  forth  with  thy  strong  one,  thou  beautiful  bride, 
Still  lean  on  his  bosom,  still  cling  to  his  side ; 
Go  forth  in  thy  beauty  supported  and  blest, 
Till  the  pearl  gates  of  glory  unfold  for  thy  rest. 


HYMN* 


IN  wrapt  adoration,  O  come  let  us  raise, 
To  God,  our  salvation,  an  anthem  of  praise- 
On  earth,  be  our  faint  song  of  gratitude  given, 
Till  holier  hymns  have  been  taught  us  in  heaven. 

When   hearts  have  been  fainting,  and  friends  have 

been  few, 
And  hope  in  our  bosoms  just  whispering  adieu; 
Thy  spirit  has  beamed  on  the  gloom  of  our  night, 
And  the  darkness  of  doubt  has  expired  in  light. 

To  God  who  has  reared  this  fair  edifice  up, 
Our  help  in  the  past — in  the  future  our  hope — 
He  laid  the  foundation — He  raised  the  top  stone, 
To  him  be  the  glory,  the  work  is  his  own. 

*  Sang  at  the  Commencement  of  the  first  Collegiate  Term,  in  the 
new  building  of  Lafayette  College. 


HYMN. 


49 


And  all  that  is  bright  in  this  building  shall  be, 
Great  Architect,  consecrate  wholly  to  thee ; 
Our  chaplets  of  fame  shall  be  counted  but  loss, 
Till  we  see  them  bedewed  with  the  blood  of  the  cross. 

To  Calvary's  mountain  shall  genius  repair, 
And  lay  all  his  talents  devotedly  there  ; 
The  fire  of  his  muse,  shall  be  fire  from  above, 
And  the  soul  of  his  song,  the  sweet  story  of  love. 

And  science  and  learning,  shall  bring  as  is  meet, 
Their  bright  meed  of  honor  to  lay  at  Thy  feet ; 
Their  garlands  of  glory  adoringly  fling, 
O'er  the  thorn-woven  crown  of  our  crucified  King. 

Enkindle,  great  God,  in  our  bosoms  a  fire, 

That  shall  brilliantly  burn  when  yon  sun  shall  expire  ; 

A  spark  from  thine  altar  in  heaven  bestow, 

To  light  in  our  hearts  such  an  altar  below. 

From  this  fair  hill  of  science,  oh,  let  us  but  see, 
Moriah's  bright  summit,  we  '11  go  there  with  thee, 
And  labor  for  laurels  to  strew  in  thy  road, 
And  shout  our  Hosannas  of  glory  to  God  ! 


c 


50 


c 


A  SUNDA  Y- SCHOOL  HYMX. 


A    SUNDAY-SCHOOL    HYMN. 

ONCE  we  loved  the  Sabbath-day, 
Not  to  read,  or  praise,  or  pray ; 
But  that  we  might  wander  free, 
Swim  the  river — climb  the  tree; 
Steal  the  apple,  peach  or  pear, 
For  we  knew  not  God  was  there. 

Well  the  parent  bird  might  fly, 
When  she  heard  our  footsteps  nigh ; 
We  would  steal  the  unfledged  young, 
Careless  of  her  grief-taught  song — 
Then  we  had  not  learned  to  read, 
God  for  sparrows  taketh  heed. 

Absent  from  our  parents'  sight, 

We  would  sometimes  cheat  and  fight ; 

Breaking  with  our  converse  rude 

Holy  Sabbath  quietude — 

Ah  !  we  had  not  then  been  taught 

What  the  Sabbath  breakers'  lot. 

Now  how  changed  !  how  blessed  we ! 
When  the  Sabbath  sun  we  see  , 


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A   SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN.                           qi 

Joyfully  we  leavre  our  home — 
Joyful  to  our  school  we  come ; 
Warm  with  love  our  bosoms  glow, 
We  are  happy  children  now. 

Happy  in  our  changed  lot, 
On  the  Sabbath  wandering  not ; 
Taught  to  read,  to  sing,  to  pray, 
Taught  salvation's  glorious  way  ; 
And  the  Christian's  golden  rule 
We  have  learned  at  Sunday-school. 

Teachers!  will  you  thanks  receive? 
All  we  children  have  to  give ; 
Gladly  will  we  meet  you  here, 
Every  Sabbath  in  the  year ; 
Lessons  learn,  and  mind  each  rule 
Taught  us  in  the  Sunday-school. 

And  when  Sabbaths  here  are  o'er; 
When  our  souls  to  glory  soar, 
We  shall  meet  and  spend  above, 
One  long  Sabbath-day  of  love; 
Every  soul  with  rapture  full — 
Joys  begun  in  Sunday-school. 

J 

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52 


THE  GOSPEL  INVITATION  ACCEPTED. 


THE    GOSPEL    INVITATION    ACCEPTED* 


AM  I  called  ?  and  can  it  be ! 
Has  my  Saviour  chosen  me? 
Guilty,  wretched  as  I  am, 
Has  He  named  my  worthless  name? 
Vilest  of  the  vile  am  I ! 
Dare  I  raise  my  hopes  so  high  ? 

Am  I  called  ?  I  dare  not  stay, 
May  not,  must  not  disobey ; 
Here,  I  lay  me  at  thy  feet, 
Clinging  to  the  mercy-seat ; 
Thine  I  am  and  thine  alone, 
Lord,  with  me  thy  will  be  done. 

Am  I  called  ?     What  shall  I  bring 
As  an  offering  to  my  King? 
Poor  and  blind,  and  naked,  I 
Trembling  at  thy  footstool  lie ; 
Nought  but  sin  I  call  my  own, 
Nor  for  sin  can  sin  atone. 

*  In  the  collection  of  hymns  for  public  and  private  worship  in  the 
Evangelical  Lutheran  Church,  this  hymn  is  erroneously  attributed  to 
Charles  Wesley, 


MISSION  A  RY  H  YMN.  5  3 

Am  I  called  ?  an  heir  of  God  ! 
Washed,  redeemed  by  precious  blood ! 
Father,  lead  me  in  thy  hand, 
Guide  me  to  that  better  land, 
Where  my  soul  shall  be  at  rest 
Pillowed  on  my  Saviour's  breast. 


MISSIONARY    HYMN. 

SIGHS  are  floating  on  the  gale, 
Sadly  to  our  souls  they  come, 
Swelling  every  snowy  sail, 
That  wafts  our  foreign  treasures  home ; 
Sighings  sad,  whose  mournful  breath, 
Tells  of  death,  eternal  death. 

From  the  dark  and  frozen  North 
Bursts  a  deep  despairing  moan — 
From  the  West  it  echoes  forth — 
From  the  parched  torrid  zone ; 
Hark !  it  comes  a  wailing  cry, 
An  oft  told  tale  of  agony. 

Various  tongues  have  told  the  grief — 
Various  winds  have  borne  it  o'er — 


ri 

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1 

5  4                                  JIIISSIOA  rA  K  V  II 1  'MN. 

Shall  we  still  deny  relief? 
O  Columbia!  favored  shore, 
Land  of  other  lands  the  light, 
Send  a  ray  to  gild  their  night. 

Afric's  sable  arms  are  spread — 
Christians,  have  we  hearts  of  steel  ? 
See  the  marks  our  chains  have  made ! 
We  have  smitten,  wre  must  heal. 
All  she  asks  is  ours  to  give 
Balm  of  life  that  she  may  live. 

Freely  has  the  gift  been  given — 
Freely  send  the  boon  abroad — 
Let  every  land  beneath  the  heaven, 
Know,  and  own,  and  worship  God  ; 
Blessings  rich,  abundant,  free, 
Shall  return  again  to  thee. 

Be  the  brilliant  lamp  of  truth, 

But  the  light  of  every  home  ; 

Let  the  aged  and  the  youth, 

Learn  to  pray  "  Thy  kingdom  come  I" 

Shall  not  earth's  united  cry, 

Bring  millenial  glory  nigh. 

Forward  press  our  noble  youth, 

J 

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Firm  in  soul  prepared  to  go, 

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\>                                                                                                           C" 

J 

J 

THE  OFFERING  OF  THE   WISE  MEN.  55 

Strong  to  bear  that  lamp  of  truth, 
Shall  we  stop  their  progress  ?  No  ! 
Let  every  darkened  nation  see 
The  glorious  light  of  Calvary. 


THE    OFFERING    OF    THE    WISE    MEN     OF 

THE    EAST. 

A  BABE  was  in  a  manger  laid, 
His  nature,  name,  to  earth  unknown ; 
In  simple  swaddling  bands  arrayed, 
The  Virgin  Mother  wrapped  her  son. 

And  why  should  men  from  foreign  land, 
Bring  gifts  to  such  an  one  as  he  ? 
Round  his  rude  cradle  wondering  stand? 
Or  bend  to  him  tbe  adoring  knee? 

They  came  directed  from  afar, 
By  heaven's  own  pure  unerring  ray ; 
Their  guide  a  bright  benignant  star, 
And  wisest  Eastern  sages  they  ! 

And  who  was  he?  The  King  of  kings! 
A  mortal  unto  mortals  given  ! 


0 


7 


5  6  THE  OFFERING  OE  THE   WISE  MEN. 

Borne  to  the  earth  on  angel's  wings, 
The  brightest,  purest,  gift  of  heaven  ! 

Aye,  bring  your  gifts  :  Myrrh,  Incense,  Gold, 
The  best,  the  richest  earth  can  yield — 
The  promised  sacrifice  behold  ! 
Jehovah  in  a  babe  concealed. 

Bring  Myrrh — a  man  of  sorrows  He; 
A  bitter  cup  of  gall  and  tears, 
Shall  his  unchanging  portion  be, 
Through  the  long  lapse  of  thirty  years. 

And  Incense — bring  the  choicest,  best, 
That  e'er  perfumed  earth's  diadem  ; 
To  grace  this  undeserved  guest, 
Thy  God,  the  babe  of  Bethlehem  ! 

And  Gold,  which  thou  dost  higher  prize, 
Pure,  burnished,  bright,  unperishing ; 
All  treasures,  precious  in  thine  eyes, 
Lay  at  the  feet  of  Christ  tlie  King  ! 

My  soul,  thy  gifts,  oh  !  bring  them  here, 
Thy  Myrrh — the  deep,  repentant  tear ! 
Thine  Incense — praise;  for  I  can  claim, 
An  interest  in  that  Infant's  name ; 
Thy  Gold,  all  things  most  dear  to  thee, 
I  [e  gave  his  very  life  for  me. 


8 


J} 

CHRIST  THE  REFUGE.  57 


CHRIST    THE    REFUGE. 

WHEN  I  behold  my  heart, 
With  sin's  deep  stain  impressed, 
Fain  would  I  draw  a  curtain  dark 
Across  my  guilty  breast ; 
Hiding  from  all,  but  most  from  thee, 
My  God,  its  vast  iniquity  3 

0  !  could  I  mount  the  wing 
Of  the  ascending  morn, 

And  be  to  earth's  remotest  ring 
Ere  close  of  evening  borne, 

1  'd  haste,  I  'd  fly  o'er  land  and  sea, 
To  hide  me  from  myself  and  thee. 

Alas  !  how  vain  the  thought ! 
The  power  that  guides  the  sun, 
Must  bear  the  flying  fugitive  ; 
And  when  the  day  is  done, 
Within  thy  hand  must  be  my  bed, 
Beneath  thy  wing  must  rest  my  head. 

O  !  whither  shall  I  fly, 
Omniscient  God,  from  thee  ? 


5S  SACRAMENTAL  HYMN. 

Within  the  deep  impervious  folds 

Of  night's  dark  canopy  ? 

'T  were  vain,  I  could  not  'scape  thy  sight, 

For  thou  thyself  my  God  art  light. 

Jesus,  to  thee  I  fly, 

In  thine  embrace  to  rest ; 

O  !  shield  me  from  thy  Father's  frown, 

Within  thy  sheltering  breast ; 

But  no  !  within  that  hiding-place, 

Frowns  turn  to  smiles,  and  wrath  to  grace. 


c 


SACRAMENTAL    HYMN. 

SINNERS,  we  are  sent  to  bid  you 
To  the  gospel-feast  to-day  ; 
Will  you  slight  the  invitation  ? 
Will  you,  can  you,  yet  delay? 

Jesus  calls  you ; 
Come,  poor  sinners,  come  away. 

Come,  oh,  come !  all  things  are  ready, 
Bread  to  strengthen,  wine  to  cheer : 
If  you  spurn  this  blood-bought  banquet, 
Sinners,  can  your  souls  appear 

Guests  in  heaven, 
Scorning  heaven's  rich  bounty  here? 


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SACRAMENTAL  HYMN.                               \ 

Come,  oh,  come  !  leave  father,  mother ; 
To  your  Saviour's  bosom  fly  : 
Leave  the  worthless  world  behind  you, 
Seek  for  pardon,  or  you  die : 
"Pardon,  Saviour!" 
Hear  the  sinking  sinner  cry. 

Even  now  the  Holy  Spirit 
Moves  upon  some  melting  heart, 
Pleads  a  bleeding  Saviour's  merit ; 
Sinner,  will  you  say  "  Depart  ?" 

Wretched  sinner, 
Can  you  bid  your  God  depart  ? 

What  are  all  earth's  dearest  pleasures, 
Were  they  more  than  tongue  could  tell? 
What  are  all  its  boasted  treasures, 
To  a  soul  once  sunk  in  hell  ? 
Treasure !  pleasure ! 
No  such  sounds  are  heard  in  hell. 

Fly,  oh,  fly  ye  to  the  mountain ! 
Linger  not  in  all  the  plain ! 
Leave  this  Sodom  of  corruption, 
Turn  not,  look  not  back  again ; 

Fly  to  Jesus, 
Linger  not  in  all  the  plain. 

59 

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6o  CRDIXATIOX  I/YMX. 


ORDINATION    HYMN. 

HOVERING  angels  wait  around  ! 
Christians,  this  is  holy  ground  ! 
Pray  the  prayer,  repeat  the  vow, 
Give  yourselves  to  Jesus  now. 

Here  before  his  altar  kneel ; 
Here  the  sacred  covenant  seal ; 
Let  each  contrite  bosom  be, 
A  living  temple,  Lord,  for  thee. 

Shepherd,  in  whose  watchful  care, 
These  immortal  beings  are, 
Dost  thou  faint  beneath  the  load? 
Roll  the  burden  on  thy  God. 

Chide  the  erring — cheer  the  saint, — 
Guide  the  wandering,  raise  the  faint, 
With  the  bread  of  life  divine, 
Feed  this  little  flock  of  thine. 

Fly  to  God  when  troubles  press, 
Tell  him  all  thy  soul's  distress : 
In  deep  effectual  fervent  prayer 
Pour  forth  all  thy  sorrows  there. 


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V 

THE  D  YING   YEAR. 

As  thy  flock  still  upward  rise, 

61 

J 

Pressing  on  to  win  the  prize, 
Point  not  thou,  but  lead  the  way, 

• 

To  glory's  everlasting  day. 

Dwell,  oh  Lord  !  each  heart  within, 

Cleanse  our  souls  from  every  sin — 

May  this  shepherd  and  his  flock 
Rest  beneath  th'  eternal  Rock. 

THE    DYING    YEAR. 

T  |  THE  parting  year  is  dying, 
JL    Its  latest  hour  is  flying ; 

Upon  my  brow 
I  feel  it  now, 

Its  last  breath  coldly  sighing. 

The  clock  its  knell  is  ringing, 

r 

The  wind  its  requiem  singing ; 
At  dead  of  night 

It  takes  its  flight, 

To  heaven  its  message  bringing. 

■ 

c 

Oh  !  sad  and  melancholy 
Its  tale  of  sin  and  folly  :» 

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6: 

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j                                     THE  DYIXG   YEAR. 

O'er  misspent  years, 
How  many  tears 
Are  shed  by  eyes  unholy ! 

And  many  a  withering  story 
It  tells  the  Lord  of  glory, 

Of  ruined  maid, 

Of  trust  betrayed, 
And  murder  foul  and  gory. 

Like  wave  of  passing  river, 
'Tis  gone,  and  gone  forever ; 

Away  it  flies 

With  all  its  joys  ; 
Return  they?     Never,  never! 

Alas !  not  thus  its  sorrow, 
'T  will  visit  us  to-morrow 

Again,  again, 

Regret  and  pain, 
We  from  the  past  may  borrow. 

Ah  !  many  a  one  is  weeping, 
Sad  memory's  vigil  keeping  ; 

We  love  to  sow 

The  seeds  of  woe, 

J 

But  love  not  sorrow's  reaping. 
Some  weep  o'er  mercies  slighted, 

C| 

Some  mourn  their  fond  hopes  blighted  ; 

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THE  DYING   YEAR. 

And  many  a  one 
Beloved  is  gone, 
In  whom  our  hearts  delighted. 

And  oh  !  Almighty  Father, 
When  time  his  years  shall  gather, 

And  thou  unroll 

Each  guilt-stained  scroll, 
How  sinners'  hearts  shall  wither ! 

They  scorned  thy  Gospel  given, 
Despised  the  blood  of  heaven  ; 

Each  unwashed  heart 

Must  then  depart, 
To  hell's  dark  dungeons  driven : 

But  oh  !  thou  gracious  Saviour, 
Thy  ransomed  ones  shall  never 

Know  grief  or  pain  ; 

They  live  and  reign, 
And  praise  and  love  forever ! 


63 


ft 


1 


64  THE  SPIRITUAL  HARVEST. 


THE    SPIRITUAL    HARVEST. 

"  Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  look  on  the  fields :  for  they  are  white  al- 
ready to  harvest." 

THE  harvest  is  coming — the  harvest  is  near — 
Nay,  look !  for  the  harvest  already  is  here  ; 
The  golden  grain,  bending,  on  valley  and  hill, 
Is  ripe  and  is  ready  ;  let  reap  it  who  will. 

'Tis  harvest,  'tis  harvest!  the  fields  waving  white 
Demand  the  sharp  sickle,  the  reaper  invite  ; 
The  autumn  winds  whistle,  and  sere  are  the  leaves, 
Yet  no  man  is  filling  his  bosom  with  sheaves. 

See,  see !  how  the  birds  to  the  banquet  repair; 
See  the  beast  of  the  forest  is  ravaging  there ; 
And  the  blast,  as  it  sweeps  over  mountain  and  plain, 
Is  wasting  each  moment  the  fast-falling  grain. 

Oh!  look  on  this  harvest  field ;  what  see  you  there 
But  blight  and  destruction,  but  sin  and  despair? 
Alas!  'tis  God's  heritage  wasted  and  wild, 
By  Satan  polluted,  and  trampled  and  spoiled  ! 

When  he  calls  for  his  reapers,  how  soon  they  appear ! 
Intemperance  hasteth  and  Murder  is  near ; 


THE  SPIRITUAL  HARVEST.  65 

Death,  followed  by  Hell,  in  glad  unison  go, 
To  gather  the  ripe  for  the  regions  below. 

God  called  for  his  servants ;  but  did  they  obey  ? 
The  reapers  for  Zion,  alas !  where  are  they? 
On  the  valley  or  mountain-top  lonely  we  see 
A  Smith  or  a  Judson,  Lord,  lab'ring  for  thee  ! 

God  called :  do  the  blushes  not  burn  on  thy  brow  ? 
He  called  you;  you  came  not;   oh!  will  you  come 

now  ? 
Again  he  invites  to  the  field  while  you  may  ; 
The  shadows  are  length 'ning,  far  spent  is  the  day. 

Up,  up  from  your  slumbers  !  awake  every  one  ! 
Come  gird  up  your  garments,  the  work  must  be  done. 
Woe,  woe  to  the  reaper  who,  sickle  in  hand, 
Can  idly  to-day  in  the  market-place  stand ! 

And  woe  to  the  sluggard !  confusion  and  shame 
Shall  blast  all  his  projects  and  blacken  his  name ; 
His  wealth  to  the  seed  of  the  just  shall  be  given, 
His  soul  find  no  place  'midst  the  glories  of  heaven. 

Then  hasten,  ye  faithful,  to  work  for  the  Lord ! 
Short,  short  is  your  service,  and  sure  your  reward. 
Go,  trust  to  his  guidance,  be  strong  in  his  strength, 
And  his  grace  shall  conduct  you  to  glory  at  length. 


Z) 


66        O  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS t    COME  FORTH! 

Jehovah  has  promised,  and  promised  it  long, 

That  the  prey  of  the  mighty,  the  spoil  of  the  strong, 

By  the  strength  of  his  arm  from  their  teeth  should  be 

riven, 
As  brands  from  the  pile  that  is  blazing  to  heaven. 

And  wilt  thou  not,  Mightiest,  thy  promise  perform  ? 
Thou  Ruler  of  whirlwinds  and  Guide  of  the  storm  ! 
Oh  !  wilt  thou  not  come  in  thy  majesty  forth, 
And  gather  thine  own  from  the  South  and  the  North  ? 


O  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS !  COME  FORTH ! 

OS  UN  of  Righteousness  !  come  forth  ; 
Spread  thy  beams  from  South  to  North ; 
To  their  light  let  nations  come 
Like  doves  that  fondly  hasten  home. 
Loudly  let  the  anthem  ring ; 
Laud  our  Jesus,  Saviour,  King ; 
And  when  loudest  notes  shall  rise, 
Piercing  through  the  bending  skies, 
Our  raptured  souls  perchance  may  hear 
The  well-known  strains,  so  loved,  so  dear; 
And  seizing  harps  attuned  and  sweet, 
For  high  peculiar  worship  meet, 
Heaven  may  unite  with  earth,  and  raise 
One  rapturous  song  of  glorious  praise! 


INVITATION  TO  THE   YOUNG.  6 J 


INVITATION    TO    THE    YOUNG. 

COME,  youthful  sinners,  come,  haste  to  the  Sav- 
iour! 
Come,  ye  young  wanderers,  cling  to  his  side ; 
Kneel  at  his  mercy-seat,  sue  for  his  favor, 
Lambs  of  his  bosom,  for  whom  he  hath  died. 

Come  to  his  temple-gate,  come  in  life's  morning, 
Give  up  your  souls  to  the  Guide  of  your  youth. 

How  fair  is  grace  the  young  bosom  adorning ! 
What  robe  so  pure  as  the  raiment  of  truth  ? 

Can  you  find  pleasure  in  pathways  unholy  ? 

Hope  ye  for  wisdom  in  wandering  from  God  ? 
Sorrow  and  shame  wait  the  votaries  of  folly ; 

Earth  has  no  comfort  not  found  in  his  blood. 

Has  He  not  died  for  you  ?  Look  to  Moriah  : 
There  see  the  tokens  of  sorrow  and  love ; 

Lives  He  not  now  for  you?     Jesus  the  Saviour 
Bled  and  ascended  to  crown  you  above. 


6 


53  THE  PASSION-FLOWER. 


THE    PASSION-FLOWER. 

THINK'ST  thou  the  Scripture's  sacred  page 
Records  the  love  of  heaven,  alone? 
Fair  nature's  brilliant  pencil,  too, 

The  mystery  hath  shown. 
Come  tread  the  garden's  maze  with  me 
At  dewy  morning's  perfumed  hour, 
And  seek,  upon  its  slender  stem, 
The  lovely  passion  flower. 

Upon  its  breast  distinctly  trace 
Each  token  to  the  Christian  dear — 
The  thorny  crown,  the  purple  robe, 

The  cord,  the  nails,  the  spear, 
The  cross  which  bore  our  dying  Lord, 
The  scourge  which  ploughed  its  furrows  deep, 
And,  ranged  around,  the  sorrowing  band, 

That  waited  but  to  weep. 

Whence  came  this  strange,  mysterious  plant, 

With  symbols  unmistakable  ? 

Sprung  it  from  earth's  blood-sprinkled  breast, 

Or  from  the  heavens  fell? 
Some  think,  when  flowed  a  Saviour's  blood, 
Slow-trickling  to  the  troubled  earth, 


C 


THE  PA  SSION-FL  0  WER.  69 

On  Calvary's  mount,  beneath  the  cross 
The  flow'ret  had  its  birth. 

While  some,  from  heaven's  blue  dome  descending, 
When  angel-hosts  the  song  began, 
In  numbers  sweet,  and  never  ending, 

Of  God's  good-will  to  man, 
They  wrote  on  revelation's  page, 
Alone,  the  precious  prophecy  ; 
Leaving  with  men  that  sacred  pledge, 

They  winged  them  to  the  sky. 

As  from  her  bosom  borne  afar, 
Each  swift  departing  seraph  flew, 
And  'mid  the  boundless  fields  of  air, 

Receded  from  her  view, 
Earth  groaned,  "  Shall  I  no  token  keep? 
May  no  memorial  be  mine 
Of  Him  who  bled  on  Calvary's  steep, 

The  Prince  of  Jesse's  line?" 

High  in  mid  heaven,  that  angel  band 
A  moment  paused  to  hear  her  prayer  ; 
Then,  smiling,  wove  a  matchless  flower 

Of  clouds  and  sunbeams  there. 
Fair  was  the  gift  and  beautiful, 
Meet  for  an  angel's  last  bequest, 
And  soft  descending  from  the  sky, 

It  fluttered  to  her  breast. 


;o 


THE  PA  SSIOX-FL  0 1 VER. 


"  Bloom  there,"  the  pitying  spirits  said  ; 
"  O  Earth  !  bear  witness  of  the  deed ; 
Let  man,  among  thy  blossoms  bright, 

The  sacred  lesson  read. 
From  rosy  morn  till  dewy  evre, 
This  open  page  before  him  place ; 
Renew  it  still,  that  he  anew, 

The  holy  truth  may  trace." 

The  gift  was  frail  ;  a  single  day 
Beholds  it  bud,  and  bloom,  and  die ; 
Child  of  the  Sun,  it  fades  away 

When  he  forsakes  the  sky. 
And  droops  not  thus  the  Christian's  heart, 
When  God,  his  Sun,  withdraws  his  ray  ? 
And  needs  not  thus,  his  failing  faith, 

Renewing  day  by  day  ? 

A  thousand  blossoms,  blooming  fair, 
May  gayly  round  my  pathway  shine, 
Admired  while  youth  and  hope  are  bright, 

And  earthly  joys  are  mine. 
But  oh  !  when  sinks  life's  fading  light, 
I  ask  no  wreath  from  rosy  bower; 
Bring  then  to  bless  my  failing  sight, 

One  holy  passion-flower. 

My  soul  would  trace  anew  the  spear, 
The  thorny  crown,  the  weeping  train, 


CHRIST  FEEDING   THE  MULTITUDE. 

And  faith  would  all  my  guilt  transfer 

To  that  dear  Head  again. 
To  Calvary's  mount  my  soul  would  fly, 
Beneath  thy  smile  kneel  humbly  down, 
Assured,  as  thou  didst  bear  the  cross, 

That  I  shall  wear  the  crown. 


71 


CHRIST    FEEDING    THE    MULTITUDE. 

nHHE  sun  was  hot  on  Galilee, 
-L      No  breeze  the  foliage  stirred, 
And  multitudes  had  gathered  there 

To  hear  Messiah's  word. 
For  he  had  taught  the  lame  to  walk, 

The  dumb  to  seek  his  praise, 
And  blinded  eyes,  unused  to  light, 

To  bless  the  solar  rays. 

But  brave,  although  the  spirit  be, 

The  flesh  is  frail  and  weak, 
And  want  unnerves  the  strongest  frame 

And  pales  the  rosiest  cheek. 
And  Christ,  our  Elder  Brother's  heart 

With  soft  compassion  glowed 
For  that  long-fasting  multitude 

That  thronged  around  his  road. 


D 


f 


J2  CHRIST  FEEDING   THE  MULTITUDE. 

"  Bring  forth  the  food,  for  we  must  share 

With  these  distressed  and  lorn, 
These  toilers  up  the  mountain  steep 

Since  morning's  earliest  dawn. 
Nay,  loiter  not,  though  small  and  few 

Your  loaves  and  fishes  be, 
Yet  bring  them  hither,  grudging  not — 

Let  alms  be  ever  free." 

And  at  his  feet  their  store  they  laid 

Of  loaves  and  fishes  small : 
"  Oh,  what  will  be  this  scant  supply 

•Among  this  people  all?" 
He,  the  Redeemer,  blest  the  bread; 

It  grew  beneath  his  hand  ; 
A  thousand,  and  a  thousand-fold, 

At  his  divine  command. 

And  all  did  eat,  and  all  were  filled, 

For  Christ  had  blest  the  bread ; 
And  needful  strength  and  joyful  life 

O'er  all  the  people  spread. 
And  the  disciples  gathered  up, 

Of  wasted  fragments,  more 
Than  at  the  first  were  found  within 

The  basket  and  the  store. 

Ye  servants  of  the  living  God, 
Why  faint  your  hearts  with  fear? 


5 


n 


A  PARAPHRASE.  73 

Bring  forth  your  fishes  and  your  loaves — 

Remember,  Christ  is  near. 
The  bread  of  life  break  freely,  then  ; 

'T  will  grow  beneath  your  hand, 
A  thousand,  and  a  thousand-fold, 

At  Christ,  your  Lord's  command. 


A    PARAPHRASE. 

A  FOOLISH  man  his  house  did  build 
Upon  the  moving  sand, 
And  trusted  that  the  edifice 

For  many  an  age  would  stand  ; 
But  soon  the  roaring  wind  did  blow, 

The  rushing  rain  did  fall, 
His  labor  and  his  cherished  hopes 

Were  wrecked  and  ruined  all ; 
His  house  was  great,  his  hopes  were  high 

And  mighty  was  their  fall ! 

Where  shall  I  find  a  spot  secure 

My  corner-stone  to  lay, 
Where  storm  and  flood  may  never  come 

To  sweep  my  works  away, 
Though  earth  herself  should  tottering  reel 

And  sicken  and  decay  p 


=tf 


c 


74  ONCE,   THOU  DEAR  DESERTED  SAVIOUR. 

O  Rock  of  Ages  !  upon  thee, 

Let  my  foundation  rest, 
And  be  the  top-stone  of  my  hopes 

By  thy  approval  blest. 
So  when  Earth's  final  pang  shall  come, 

Her  trembling  frame  be  riven, 
Her  mightiest  monuments,  like  chaff, 

Be  by  the  whirlwind  driven, 
My  soul,  may  find  a  home  secure, 

A  mansion-house  in  heaven. 


ONCE,  THOU   DEAR   DESERTED    SAVIOUR. 


* 


ONCE,  thou  dear,  deserted  Saviour — 
Once  this  heart  was  all  thine  own. 
Have  these  moments  fled  for  ever? 

Has  sin  usurped  Immanuel's  throne? 
Then  I  loved  thee  most  supremely ; 
Every  comfort  flowed  from  thee ; 
Now  I  struggle,  ah  !  how  vainly, 
As  I  once  have  been,  to  be. 

Sin,  repented,  not  forsaken, 

Prayed  against,  yet  present  still — 

Oh  !  my  very  soul  is  shaken, 

Striving  'gainst  that  monster's  will. 

*  Written  during  a  season  of  spiritual  darkness. 


D 


ONCE,   THOU  DEAR  DESERTED  SAVIOUR.  75 

Thus  forsaken  by  the  spirit, 

Thus  conflicting  every  hour ; 
Feeling  all  a  Saviour's  merit, 

Yet  obeying  Satan's  power. 

Tell  me,  ye  who  share  the  favor 

Of  the  blessed  King  above, 
Tell  me  where  to  seek  the  Saviour, 

Object  of  your  changeless  love. 
Oh  !  this  sin-sick  soul  would  find  him, 

At  his  feet  to  weep  and  pray. 
How  my  circling  arms  should  bind  him, 

How  my  soul  would  urge  his  stay ! 

Bible  !  book  of  consolation, 

Can  thy  precious  page  afford 
No  sweet  promise  of  salvation 

Perfected  in  Christ  the  Lord  ? 
O'er  the  sacred  record  turning, 

Nought  but  threat'nings  can  I  see ; 
Fires  of  wrath  forever  burning, 

Quenchless  flames  for  guilty  me. 

Seek  I  not  with  tears,  repentance  ? 

Yet,  like  Esau,  seek  in  vain  ? 
Have  thy  lips  pronounced  the  sentence, 

Dooming  me  to  endless  pain  ? 
Bless  me,  also,  O  my  Father! 

Though  my  birthright  sold  have  I ; 


a 


-6  ONCE,   THOU  DEAR  DESERTED  SAVIOUR. 

Clouds  of  vengeance  o'er  me  gather  ; 
Bless  me,  save  me,  or  I  die  ! 

See  this  bruised  and  broken  spirit — 

See  this  sin-abhorring  soul : 
Saviour,  for  thy  sufferings'  merit 

Bind  my  bosom,  make  me  whole! 
Nothing  can  I  bring  before  thee 

But  my  sorrowing  soul's  distress ; 
Can  I  vow  to  still  adore  thee, 

Feeling  hopeless  guiltiness  ? 

See,  a  beam  from  heaven  is  stealing 

To  my  sin-bewildered  sight ! 
This  sacred  promise,  *t  is  revealing : 

"  At  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 
O'er  this  sacred  anchor  bending, 

Now  my  sinking  soul  I  stay, 
Longing  for  the  brilliant  ending, 

Of  this  dark  and  cloudy  day. 

Easton,  Pa.,  1834. 


c 


THE   WIDO  W  OF  NAIN. 


77 


THE    WIDOW    OF    NAIN. 

"  When  he  came  nigh  to  the  gate  of  the  city,  behold,  there  was  a 
dead  man  carried  out,  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow." 

WHAT  volumes  of  unutterable  woe 
In  that  short  sentence  writ !    A  widow  she — 
A  childless  widow,  lonely  now  and  sad, 
Bowed  down  beneath  a  load  of  grief  and  years. 
How  changed,  since  in  the  pride  of  youth  she  stood 
Before  the  altar,  lovely  and  beloved, 
A  bright,  young,  blushing  bride !  the  future  all 
One  sunny  scene  of  happiness  and  love. 
Methinks  I  see  her.     One  is  by  her  side — 
The  exulting  bridegroom — one  who  would  have  died 
To  shield  her  bosom  from  impending  woe. 
As  the  fond  ivy  to  the  strong  oak  clings, 
So  clung  she  to  him,  beautifully  weak, 
Trembling  at  her  own  blessedness,  and  fain, 
Beneath  the  rosy  veil  of  bashfulness, 
To  hide  the  current  of  unbounded  joy. 

But  the  destroyer  came  ;  the  strong  oak  fell ; 
The  tendrils  of  her  love,  all  rent  and  torn, 
Must  find  another  prop,  and  one  was  near. 
From  the  seared  root  a  lovely  scion  sprung, 


73 


THE   WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 


And  round  it  soon  and  close  twined  every  fibre 
Of  her  bleeding  heart. 

She  loved  that  child  : — what  had  she  else  to  love? 

Others  have  many  jewels,  she  but  one  : — 

Oh,  how  she  loved  him !     On  her  soft,  warm  breast 

She  laid  the  tiny  nursling,  rocked  his  sleep 

By  her  own  bosom's  heavings,  while  her  voice, 

Love-tuned,  became  a  perfect  melody, 

Soft  as  the  breathings  of  ^Eolian  lyre, 

When  summer  zephyrs  light  upon  its  strings. 

Thus  sung  she  him  to  rest;  then  silently 
Listened  to  his  sweet  breath,  that,  soft  and  low, 
Made  music  in  return.     What  sound  more  loved, 
What  music  sweeter  to  a  mother's  ear? 
Thus  happily  she  lay,  till,  overcome 
By  that  dear  lullaby,  soft  slumbers  stole, 
Weighing  her  eyelids  down  ;  but  sleepless  love 
Still  taught  her  arms  to  clasp  her  little  one ; 
While  dreams  of  hope  and  happiness  came  fast, 
And  beautiful,  mingling  and  changing, 
Fanciful  and  true,  like  atoms  thick 
Floating  in  summer  beams,  earthly,  confused, 
Intangible  and  frail,  yet  brilliant  all, 
When  illumined  by  light  from  heaven. 

lie  grew  apace  ;  and  by  his  little  hand 
She  led  him  to  the  temple  of  her  God, 


THE   WIDO  W  OF  NAIN. 

And  taught  his  infant  lip  to  whisper  praise, 

And  told  him  of  the  claims  he  held  on  heaven; 

For  God  is  father  of  the  fatherless. 

He  grew  apace — to  full  perfection  grew, 

A  tall,  fair  youth,  her  bosom's  hope  and  pride. 

A  change  is  on  him.     Wherefore  is  it  thus  ? 
His  step  less  buoyant,  and  his  voice  less  gay. 
And  yet  how  fair,  how  passing  fair  he  is  ! 
A  rose  is  on  his  cheek,  a  deep,  red  rose, 
Such  as  the  hand  of  health  hath  never  drawn; 
And,  on  his  brow  and  temples,  each  blue  vein 
Meanders  fair,  exquisitely  distinct. 
He  holier  grew,  and  lovelier,  every  hour, 
As  autumn's  foliage  brightens  in  decay. 

She  watched  him  long,  each  remedy  applied 
With  anxious  hand.     Hope,  trembling,  smiled  ; 
Conviction  closed  her  eye,  and  would  not  see 
The  form  attenuate  that  daily  grew 
More  and  more  helpless. 

Onward  with  steady  pace  the  spectre  came. 
Why  tell  the  parting  sad,  the  last  wild  kiss, 
The  last  faint  pressure  felt,  the  cherished  tone 
That  never  more  shall  fill  the  listening  ear, 
Yet  vibrates  still,  an  echo  wandering  sad 
Through  each  lone  chamber  of  the  ruined  heart ; 


79 


c 


80 


THE   WIDOW  OF  XAIX. 


Distant,  and  low,  and  mournful,  as  the  voice 
Of  ocean  wailing  for  its  absent  shell. 


The  last  long  look  is  taken.     Sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  lone  widow's  door  her  child  is  borne. 
Moves,  in  procession  vast,  that  funeral  train, 
For  he  was  loved,  and  she  was  pitied  much. 
Bowed  down  with  grief  and  watching,  lo  !  she  comes. 
Hark  to  that  sob  of  anguish  short  and  low  ! 
She  hath  no  tears  to  shed — not  one,  not  one  ; 
Grief,  burning  grief,  hath  dried  each  healing  spring 
In  her  seared  heart. 


Forth  from  the  city's  gate  they  wend  their  way. 
Who  speaks?    What  voice  was  that?    ''Young  man, 

arise ! 
Perhaps  the  winged  soul  of  that  loved  youth 
Still  lingered  near  the  sorrowing  mother's  form, 
Heedless,  though  angels  on  their  burnished  wings 
Were  waiting  to  convoy  him  safe  to  heaven. 
"  Young  man,  arise  !"     Who  speaks  ?     Is  he  a  God  ? 
Who  but  a  God  dare  speak  such  words  as  these? 
See!   the  still  bosom  heaves,  the  heart  beats  light, 
The  stagnant  blood  through  vein  and  artery  springs, 
The  eye  uncloses,  and  the  pallid  lip 
Assumes  its  wonted  hue.     "  Young  man,  arise  !" 
That  still,  small  voice,  strong  as  the  archangel's  trump, 
Pierces  the  car  of  death.     Casting;  aside 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

The  cerements  of  the  grave,  instant  erect, 
Restored  to  health  and  happiness,  he  stands  ! 

No  shout  of  exultation  rent  the  air; 

Deep,  holy  fear  held  mute  the  wondering  crowd : 

Each,  feeling  God's  presence,  bowed,  convinced 

It  was  indeed  Messiah,  veiled,  not  hid. 

Nor  he  alone  who  lay  on  the  cold  bier 

Was  raised  that  hour  to  life,  but  souls  redeemed, 

A  numerous  host,  exulting  now  in  heaven. 

He  gave  him  to  his  mother.     Her  delight ! 

An  angel's  pen  alone  can  picture  that. 


81 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CHRISTIAN. 

WHY  should  angels  bend  their  flight 
From  realms  of  uncreated  light  ? 
Why  forsake  their  native  sky  ? 

Can  they  wonder 
Christians  should  triumphant  die? 

Know  they  not  the  happy  land, 
By  the  breeze  of  heaven  fanned, 
Where  the  saints  at  God's  right  hand 
Boundless  blessings  shall  enjoy  ? 

Can  they  wonder, 
When  they  see  a  Christian  die  ? 


82  THE  DEA  Til  CF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Come  they  ?     Yes,  but  'tis  to  wait 
11  Till  the  good  man  meets  his  fate," 
Then  to  heaven's  glorious  gate 
Bear  his  soul  triumphantly, 

Not  to  wonder 
That  the  saint  should  calmly  die ! 

Why  should  fiends  from  hell  below, 
In  wonder  to  his  death-bed  go  ? 
They  may  envy,  for  they  know, 
Heaven's  eternal  weight  of  joy. 

Would  they  wonder 
Though  the  saints  should  long  to  die? 

Burning  memory  points  to  where 
Life's  pure  river  sparkles  there  ; 
Trees,  whose  boughs  luxuriant,  bear 
Fruits  of  immortality. 
Can  they  wonder, 
Should  the  Christian  love  to  die  ? 

They  who  once  from  heaven  fell 
Down  into  the  deepest  hell ; 
Whose  tortured  tongues  alone  can  tell 
An  angel's  woe,  an  angel's  joy — 

Can  they  wonder 
Ransomed  Christians  long  to  die? 

Christian,  bought  by  priceless  blood, 
Welcome  to  the  throne  of  God, 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

Though  your  head  beneath  the  sod, 
In  corruption  mouldering  lie  ! 

Happy  Christian, 
'Tis  your  privilege  to  die  ! 

Will  the  weary  wanderer  weep, 
When  his  couch  is  spread  for  sleep  ? 
Will  the  runner  slack  his  speed, 
When  he  sees  the  glittering  meed  ? 
Will  the  warrior  trembling  fly, 
When  the  shout  is  Victory  ? 
Child  of  earthly  misery, 
Heir  of  heaven's  un withering  joy  ! 

Oh !  the  wonder, 
Should  the  Christian  shun  to  die ! 


«3 


-i---i-imriT— J11 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    BABE. 

I. 

PAST  the  struggle — past  the  pain — 
Cease  to  weep,  for  tears  are  vain  ; 
Calm  the  tumult  of  the  breast 
He  who  suffered  is  at  rest. 

II. 
Still  the  polished  marble  brow, 
Ever  free  from  anguish  now  ; 
Gone  the  soul  with  Christ  to  reign  ; 
Would  you  wish  it  back  again  ? 

ill. 
Give  your  precious  baby  up ; 
Sorrow,  not  bereft  of  hope  ; 
Back  to  your  embraces  given, 
You  shall  clasp  your  child  in  heaven. 

IV. 

Didst  thou  hope  he  might  proclaim 
Far  thy  glorious  Master's  name  ? 
Already  has  he  learned  to  raise 
Endless  anthems  to  his  praise. 

(87) 


88  MIBXIGIIT  MUSINGS  IN  A  GRA  VE-YARD. 

V. 

Gently  from  his  mother's  breast 
Lay  him  in  his  bed  of  rest ; 
In  this  chamber  silent  deep, 
Undisturbed  her  babe  shall  sleep. 

VI. 

Leave  we  here  this  lovely  dust ; 
Grave,  be  faithful  to  thy  trust ; 
Purified,  oh  let  it  rise, 
Fitted  for  its  home,  the  skies. 


MIDNIGHT    MUSINGS    IN   A   GRAVE-YARD. 


* 


TiniS  past,  'tis  o'er,  my  beautiful  hath  faded  ; 

-JL    The  grave  now  holds  my  treasure,  and  the  sod 
Rests  on  this  bosom's  idol !     Have  I  made  it 
My  soul's  deep  worship,  and  forgot  my  God  ? 
If  so,  O  Mightiest !  to  Thy  chastening  rod 
I  bow  submissive  !     'Neath  this  church-yard  stone 
'Tis  well  that  thus  my  prized,  my  gifted  lies, 
Down  in  that  dark,  cold,  silent  bed,  alone, 

*  In  the  grave  yard  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  in  Easton, 
Pennsylvania,  is  a  simple,  modest  tombstone  with  the  inscription, 
"  Our  Little  Johnny."  This  tomb,  which  marks  the  resting-place  of  a 
sweet,  precious  boy,  is  the  scene  of  the  above  poem. 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS  IN  A   GRA  VE-  YARD.  go 

Mourned  by  the  night-wind's  sad  and  fitful  sighs  ; 
Watched  by  the  wakeful  stars'  soft,  pitying,  passive 
eyes. 

O  ye  pure  orbs,  why  steal  ye  thus  at  even 
So  voiceless  and  so  mournful  ?     Have  you  all 
Forgot  the  exulting  shout  that  rang  through  heaven, 
When  first  among  you  rolled  this  glowing  ball, 
Warm  from  God's  hand  ?    Where  now  the  joyous  call 
Of  His  glad  sons  ?     Ye  bright  ones,  that  adorn 
Yon  cloudless  firmament,  my  anxious  ears 
List  for  your  hymns  in  vain  ;  and  coming  morn, 
In  her  bright  robe,  that  hides  your  fading  spheres, 
Shows  me  Earth's  graves  all  wet,  all  glittering  with 
your  tears. 

Why  weep  you  thus  for  her  in  night  and  sadness  ? 
Are  there  no  graves  but  hers  ?     Has  she  alone 
Lost  her  primeval  lustre  ?     Shall  not  gladness 
Visit  again  this  lone,  this  stricken  one  ? 
How  is  her  beauty  changed,  her  splendor  gone  ! 
Daughter  of  heaven,  thy  glorious  brow  is  clouded — 
Tombs    are   thy   children's   birthright — death   their 

dower  ! 
O  lost,  degenerate  one  !  in  darkness  shrouded, 
Dimmed  is  thy  gold,  bright  pageant  of  an  hour : 
And   sin's   dread    serpents    hiss    within   thy   fairest 

bower. 


n 


8 


90 


MIDNIGHT  MUSINGS  IN  A   GRA  VE-  YARD. 


Weep  on,  ye  pitying  orbs,  though  vain  your  weep- 

With  tears  her  graves  bedew,  she,  only  she, 
Mourns  her  departed.    None  with  you  are  sleeping — 
You  have  no  vault,  no  tomb,  no  cemetery  ; 
Sinless,  immortal,  deathless,  strong  and  free  ! 
Can  ye  give  nought  but  tears?     Have  you  no  power 
To  heal  the  griefs  ? — no  balm  to  soothe  her  pain  ? 
Oh  for  some  mighty  hand,  some  favoring  hour  ! 
Descend,  descend,  and  break  this  torturing  chain, 
Bind   up   your   bleeding   heart,  and   bid  her  smile 


again. 


Weep  not,  thou  stricken  one,  though  darkness  o'er 

thee, 
And  sin,  and  hell,  have  cast  this  mournful  pall ; 
Fair,  bright,  unnumbered  years  are  yet  before  thee  ; 
Arise,  and  shine,  thou  holiest  of  them  all ! 
Thy  very  dust  shall  live.     Faith  from  the  thrall 
Of  the  dark  tomb  thy  slumbering  ones  shall  rise  ! 
Hark  !  the  Archangel's  voice,  the  trumpet's  call ! 
Earth  shall  be  made  a  heaven,  the  joy  of  joys, 
The  ransomed  of  her  God,  the  wonder  of  the  skies  ! 


I  HEARD  A    VOICE  OE  SORROW.  qT 


I    HEARD    A    VOICE    OF    SORROW.* 


I 


HEARD  a  voice  of  sorrow, 
A  wailing  o'er  the  clay, 
And  my  spirit  paused  a  moment 

Upon  its  heav'nly  way. 
A  moment  paused,  to  sympathize 

With  dear  ones  left  on  earth, 
Dear  ones  who  could  not  realize 

My  new,  immortal  birth. 
But  angels  were  around  me, 

With  wings,  bright  wings,  for  me, 
And  mingling  with  the  sobs  of  earth 

Came  heavenly  harmony. 
And  louder  grew  the  melody, 

And  fainter  came  the  cry, 
As  upward,  on  my  new-found  wings, 

I  hastened  through  the  sky. 
Oh  weep  not,  weep  not,  dear  ones  ! 

'Twas  but  a  moment's  pain  ; 
I  sank  beneath  the  waters  deep, 

But  soon  I  rose  again. 
No  eye  hath  seen,  no  heart  conceived, 

No  mortal  ear  hath  heard, 

*  Written  on  the  26th  of  April,  the  death-day  of  my  dear  little  son. 


fi= 


92 


ON  SEEING  A  LITTLE  BABE'S  FUNERAL. 

How  bright  the  srlorious  home  for  me 

My  Father  hath  prepared — 
For  me,  a  child  of  dust  and  clay, 

A  sinful  little  boy, 
Who  sighed  on  this  dark  earth  to  stay, 

And  feared  so  soon  to  die. 
But  oh  !  I  would  not  change  my  home 

For  earth's  most  bright  abode ; 
Escaped,  through  death,  from  sin  and  tears, 

And  safe  at  home  with  God. 


ON    SEEING    A    LITTLE    BABE'S    FUNERAL. 

I  SAW  a  sweet  babe  in  a  coffin, 
Pass  on  to  the  church-yard  this  morn, 
And  a  sad  and  a  sorrowing  mother, 

From  whom  that  fair  daughter  was  borne. 

And  I  followed  them  on  in  their  sorrow, 
A»d  tears  came  unbid  to  my  eye, 

And  I  felt  that  perchance  ere  to-morrow, 
I,  too,  might  be  called  on  to  die. 


And  I  stood  by  that  grave  deep  and  lonely, 
Where  cradled  the  baby  should  rest ; 

The  cold  earth  its  bed,  and  that  only 
The  cover,  to  wrap  its  young  breast. 


ON  SEEING  A  LITTLE  BABE'S  FUNERAL.  93 

And  I  heard,  oh  !  I  shuddered  to  hear  it, 

The  clods  on  the  black  coffin  lid, 
And  watched  as  I  lingered  still  near  it,- 

Till  that  coffin  was  covered  and  hid. 

And  I  waited  till  all  had  departed, 

Till  father  and  mother  had  gone, 
And  the  poor  little  baby,  deserted, 

Was  left  with  the  dead  all  alone. 

But  they  said,  that  not  always  forsaken 
It  should  slumber  thus  under  the  clay  ; 

That  a  sweet  voice  would  come  and  awaken 
And  call  it  to  heaven  away. 

My  Father  once  cast  in  earth's  bosom 

A  seed  in  his  garden  so  fair, 
Which  sprang  up  a  beautiful  blossom, 

When  summer  birds  came  to  sing  there. 

Let  us  go  where  the  green  grass  is  springing, 
Called  forth  by  the  sunshine  and  rain, 

And  see  if  the  summer  birds'  singing 
Has  waked  up  that  baby  again. 

For  surely  its  mother  could  never 

Have  dried  up  the  tears  which  she  shed, 

If  she  felt  that  her  babe  would  forever 
Remain  in  the  home  of  the  dead. 


94 


DBA  TH  OF  A  BRIDE  OF  SIX  WEEK'S. 

Ah,  darling  !  the  sunshine  and  showers 
Which  spread  o'er  your  garden  its  bloom, 

The  warblers  that  sang  in  your  bowers 
Awake  not  the  flowers  of  the  tomb. 

Yet  to  them  shall  a  spring-time  be  given, 
They,  too,  shall  arise  from  the  sod, 

And,  mounting  on  bright  wings  to  heaven, 
Appear  in  the  presence  of  God. 

And  the  mother  may  dry  up  her  sadness, 
And  smile  in  the  midst  of  her  pain, 

For  she  hopes  in  that  bright  world  of  gladness 
To  embrace  her  own  darling  again. 


DEATH    OF    A    BRIDE    OF    SIX    WEEKS. 

MODEST  and  beautiful,  gentle  and  fair, 
The  bride,  like  a  lily,  stands  droopingly  there, 
Not  purer  the  robe  that  around  her  is  prest, 
Than  the  pure  thoughtful  spirit  that  dwells  in  her 

breast ; 
The  mild  eye  looks  languid,  the  dark  brow  beneath, 
And  the  bosom  heaves  quick  with  the  oft-coming 

breath  ; 
The  tint  of  the  rose  to  that  fair  cheek  is  given, 
But  fitful  and  faint  as  the  last  hues  of  heaven — 


fl 


DEA  TH  OF  A  BRIDE  OF  SIX  WEEKS.  95 

Advancing,  receding-,  one  moment  as  bright 

As  the  rosiest  cloud  that  foretells  of  morn's  light; 

Then,  like  the  pale  twilight  at  closing  of  day, 

Fades,  fades  till  all  color  has  faded  away. 

Nay !  gaze  not  upon  her,  not  long  shall  she  be 

A  comfort,  a  joy,  and  a  solace  to  thee. 

Long,  long  ere  she  wed  thee,  another  had  thrown 

His  magic  around  her,  and  marked  her  his  own. 

Aye !  bear  her  away,  he  will  follow  thee  still, 

And  tread  in  thy  footsteps,  advance  as  you  will. 

He'll  watch  by  her  pillow  when  slumber  has  thrown 

A  veil  o'er  the  eyes  of  thy  beautiful  one. 

His  place  by  her  side  at  the  banquet  shall  be  ; 

Thou  art  close  to  her  bosom,  but  closer  is  he. 

He  will  watch  her  forever  by  night  and  by  day, 

And  steal  from  thy  bosom  its  treasure  away. 

Thou'lt  follow  her  sad  to  her  resting  place  lone, 

Untenanted  save  by  thy  beautiful  one. 

Oh  !  earth's  choicest  blossoms  but  bloom  to  decay, 

And  earth's  treasures  melt  like  the  dew-drops  away, 

The  fairest  first  fading  ;  the  brightest,  the  best, 

Light  up  like  a  meteor  one  moment  the  breast ; 

Ah  !  darker  and  deeper  the  gloom  that  is  thrown 

O'er  the  heart  when  that  light  of  a  moment  is  gone. 

Yet  why  o'er  the  graves  of  our  loved  should  we 

weep  ? — 
Why  verdant  with  tears  make  the  beds  where  they 

sleep  ? 


1 


96 


A  HAPPY  X i:\V-  YEAR. 


Soon  as  peaceful,  as  gentle,  as  calm,  shall  we  rest, 
As  softly  shall  lie  the  green  sod  on  our  breast, 
For  the  lone  one  now  weeps  not,  reclining  beside 
The  cold  placid  breast  of  his  beautiful  bride  , 
Ah  !  never  again  from  his  loved  one  to  sever, 
United  on  earth,  and  in  heaven,  forever. 


A    HAPPY    NEW-YEAR.* 

A  HAPPY  New-Year  to  you,  Annie, 
The  brightest  you  ever  have  passed, 
Safe,  safe  from  a  world  full  of  sorrow, 
Secure  from  its  storm  and  its  blast  ; 
Though  fair  were  the  prospects  around  you, 
And  cloudless  your  future  might  seem  ; 
Ah  !  life  is  a  wearisome  journey, 
Its  hope  but  a  vapor — a  dream  ! 


With  angels,  this  fair  New-Year's  morning, 
An  angel,  immortal  and  free; 
Though  cold  be  thy  bed  place,  sweet  Annie, 
Who  would  not  change  pillows  with  thee? 

■  The  subject  of  the  following  stanzas  was   interred  this  morning. 
She  died    at    the   early  age   of  twenty  one   years,  and  a  married    life  of 

less  than  six   months.     It   is  no  undeserved  eulogy  to  say  that  she 
w.is  beautiful,  both  morally  and  physically,  and  it  was  this  twofold 
ini  ss  ivhi(  h  prompted  these  lines. 


D 


A  HAPP  Y  NE IV-  YEAR. 

Then  rest  thee,  beloved  and  lovely, 
Rest  as  the  redeemed  ones  rest, 
The  arms  of  thy  Saviour  around  thee, 
Thy  head  pillowed  soft  on  His  breast. 

And  oh  !  to  the  sad  and  the  lonely, 
Who  miss  vou  at  eve  and  at  morn, 
Shall  we  say,  Do  not  weep  for  the  flowerlet 
From  fond  hearts  so  recently  torn  ? — 
Yes,  weep,  for  your  light  has  departed, 
Your  sun  set  ere  noontide  had  come  ; — 
Yes,  weep,  for  the  fair,  the  light-hearted, 
Lies  silent  and  cold  in  the  tomb  ! 


97 


O  !  tears  are  a  solace  for  sorrow — 
Nor  hopeless  the  tears  which  you  weep  ; 
She  sleeps,  but  there  cometh  a  morrow 
To  wake  her  again  from  her  sleep  ; 
Then  lift  up  your  eyes  to  the  heaven, 
Behold  her  both  faithful  and  true, 
Not  weeping,  where  tears  are  forbidden, 
But  lovingly  smiling  on  you. 


98 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  MRS.  CAMILLA  IL  VRIE. 


THE     DEATH    OF    MRS.    CAMILLA    ILVRIE. 

I. 

THEY  laid  her  in  the  coffin  ;  there  was  weeping — 
Deep  sobs  burst  forth  from  many  a  mourning 
breast, 
While  she,  like  cradled  babe,  lay  sweetly  sleeping ; 
No  sound  of  sorrow  broke  her  holy  rest ; 
Her  loved,  her  lovely  children  round  her  prest ; 
Deep  was  their  grief,  and  bitter  was  their  cry, 
Their  tears  bedewed,  their  little  hands  caressed — 
She  lay  unmoved  amid  their  agony, 
Though  he,  her  best  beloved,  stood,  in  his  sadness,  b}\ 


II. 
They  bore  her  to  the  grave  ;  the  poor  attended  ; — 
For  she  had  been  a  helper  to  the  poor  ; — 
The  sad,  the  sick,  the  helpless,  the  unfriended 
Sought  not  in  vain  her  hospitable  door  ; 
Free  hand  and  liberal  heart,  and  ample  store, 
Blessings  thrice  blessed,  the  choicest  gifts  of  heaven, 
Were  hers.     Oh  !   well,  ye  poor,  may  you  deplore 
I  ler  loss,  who  made  your  hearth  burn  bright  at  even, 
And  freely  gave  to  you   what  God  to  her  had  given. 


FUNERAL  DIRGE. 


99 


in. 
Go  to  thy  place  ; — spirit  from  earth  departed  ; — 
Speed  to  the  rest  that  waiteth  thee  above  ; 
Angels  shall  guard  the  home  thou  hast  deserted  ; 
God  shall  protect  the  objects  of  thy  love  ; 
He  shall  a  kinder,  gentler  guardian  prove  ; — 
Go  ;  let  no  thought  of  earth  thy  bliss  alloy  ; 
Through  fields  of  never-fading  verdure  rove, 
Where  every  tear  is  wiped  from  every  eye ; 
Speed  thee  from  earth  to  heaven — there  worship  and 
enjoy. 


FUNERAL    DIRGE. 


H 


ARK  to  the  solemn  bell, 
Mournfully  pealing  ! 
What  do  its  wailings  tell, 

On  the  ear  stealing  ? 
Seem  they  not  thus  to  say, 
Loved  ones  have  passed  away  f 
Ashes  with  ashes  lay, 
List  to  its  pealing. 

Earth  is  all  vanity, 

False  as  'tis  fleeting  ; 
Grief  is  in  all  its  joy, 

Smiles  with  tears  meeting  : 


a 


ioo 


FUNERAL  DIRGE. 

Youth's  brightest  hopes  decay, 
Pass  like  morn's  gems  away, 
Too  fair  on  earth  to  stay, 
Where  all  is  fleeting. 

When  in  their  lonely  bed, 

Loved  ones  are  lying  ; 
When  joyful  wings  are  spread, 

To  heaven  flying : 
Would  we  to  sin  and  pain, 
Call  back  their  souls  again, 
Weave  round  their  hearts  the  chain 

Severed  in  dying  ? 

No,  dearest  Jesus,  no  ; 

To  Thee,  their  Saviour, 
Let  their  free  spirits  go, 

Ransomed  forever ; 
Heirs  of  unending  joy, 
Theirs  is  the  victory  ; 
Thine  let  the  glory  be, 

Now  and  forever. 


C 


A  FA  MIL  Y  IN  HE  A  VEN.  ioi 


A    FAMILY    IN    HEAVEN.* 

WE  saw  thee  in  thy  early  bloom, 
A  young  and  gentle  bride  ; — 
We  saw  thee  when  thy  first-born  son 
Lay  helpless  by  thy  side  ; — 
We  saw  thee  in  thy  loveliness, 
A  widow  left  to  weep  ; 
And  soon  we  saw  thy  woes  forgot, 
In  death's  long  dreamless  sleep  ! 

Thy  babes  were  left  in  orphan  state  . 
Yet  never  did  they  know 
The  sorrows  of  the  fatherless, 
Or  feel  the  orphan's  woe  ; 
Yet  if  the  spirits  of  the  just, 
From  their  abodes  of  bliss, 
May  minister  to  those  they  love 
Left  sojourning  in  this, — 

No  doubt  thy  spirit,  in  its  care, 
To  earth  has  often  fled, 
To  watch  thy  children's  daily  path, 
Or  guard  their  slumbering  bed  ; 

*  Written  on  the  death  of  two  orphan  children,  which  occurred  soon 
after  the  death  of  their  mother. 


^ 

5                                                                                                                   c_ 

( 

> 

t 

IQ2                            A  FAMIL  Y  IN  HE  A  VEN. 

And  when  thy  youngest,  fairest  one 
Had  laid  him  down  to  die, 
Say,  was  not  thy  maternal  form 
Unseen,  yet  hovering  by  ? — 

To  mark  the  eye's  last  lingering  beam, 

And  watch  the  struggling  breath, 

And  clasp  the  spirit  as  it  passed 

The  cold  dark  porch  of  death  ? 

And  when  at  length  thy  eldest  hope 

On  dying  bed  was  laid  ; 

When  tears  were  shed  and  prayers  were 

breathed, 
And  science  lent  its  aid — 

For  what  ? — to  bind  a  mounting  soul 

To  bondage  and  to  clay  ! 

And  clip  the  fluttering  pinions  spread 

To  seek  celestial  day  ! 

Didst  thou  not  smile,  while  others  wept, 

In  joyful  consciousness 

That  earth  contained  no  cordial  drop 

To  stay  a  soul  from  bliss  ? 

The  last,  last  link  is  broken  now, 
Then  hie  thee  to  the  blest, — 
Secure  within  thy  Father's  arms, 

j 

c 

Thy  loved  ones  sweetly  rest, — 

I 

( 

) 

J 

— a                                                                                         c — 

j 

a 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A   CHRISTIAN  STATESMAN.    103 

And  lift  aloud  thy  matchless  voice 
Amid  the  spirits  free, 
And  strike  the  harp — thy  golden  harp — 
In  boundless  ecstacy. 

At  home  !  at  home  !  most  joyful  sound  ! 

Sin,  sickness,  death,  o'ercome  ! — 

Unmatched,  unutterable  bliss, 

When  wanderers  meet  at  home  ! 

If  praise,  transcending,  heavenly  praise 

To  Christ  the  Lamb  be  given, 

'Tis  sung  when  kindred  spirits  meet 

A  family  in  heaven. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    CHRISTIAN 
STATESMAN. 


H 


E  has  gone — he  has  gone — and  the  tears  that 
we  shed 

Are  shed  that  from  earth  a  bright  spirit  has  passed  ; 
That  a  star  from  our  zenith  of  freedom  has  fled  ; 
That  the  gem  of  our  diadem  's  fallen  at  last. 
His  dust  to  embalm,  from  the  east  shall  we  bring 
Her  gems  and  her  spices,  most  precious  and  rare, — 
The  odors  of  Edom  around  shall  we  fling, 
Or  load  with  the  sweets  of  Arabia  the  air? 


io4 


ON  THE  DEA  Til  OF  A   CHRISTIAN  ST  A  TESMAN. 


CI 

C 


Ah  !  vain  is  the  task  to  bring  perfumes  from  far 
To  hallow  the  grave  where  the  wicked  may  rest  ; 
But  the  deeds  of  the  righteous,  how  fragrant  they 

are, 
More  pure  than  the  incense  of  Araby's  breast ! 
We  need  not  her  spices  to  sweeten  thy  bed  ; 
We  need  not  her  balm  to  be  treasured  for  thee  ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  verdant  with  tears  that  we  shed  ; 
Thy  memory  embalmed  with  the  sighs  of  the  free. 

No  urn  from  afar  shall  thy  ashes  enshrine  ; 

No  tomb  of  a  tyrant  dishonor  thy  rest ; 

Thy  country's  kind  bosom  shall  close  over  thine, 

And;  fondly  she'll  fold   her   green   robe   round  thy 

breast. 
There,  honored  and  loved,  let  thy  relics  be  laid — 
A  resting-place  meet  for  the  great  and  the  free ; 
And  a  shrine  shall  the  heart  of  each  freeman  be  made, 
Where  memorv  in  secret  shall  sorrow  for  thee. 


n 


D 


WEEP,  SISTER,    WEEP.  105 


WEEP,  SISTER,  WEEP.* 

WEEP,   sister,    weep,   for  thou    hast   cause   of 
weeping  ; 
Mourn,  in  tears  of  deepest  sorrow,  mourn  ; 
Yet  canst  thou  not  awake  the  loved  one  sleeping, 
Nor  bid  the  winged  soul  to  earth  return  ; — 
Nor  wouldst  thou  ;  he  is  gone — all  storms  above  ; — 
'Balmed  by  a  nation's  tears,  shrined  in  his  country's 
love. 

But  let  us  weep  for  thee  ; — for  thy  departed 
Was  ours — a  people's  proudly  chosen  chief; — 
We  shared  thy  triumphs  ;  shalt  thou  be  deserted 
In  thy  lone  luxury  of  silent  grief?. 
We  come,  we  come,  a  sorrowing  family, 
We  gather  round  his  tomb  to  weep  our  tears  with 
thee. 

See  !  how  he  resteth  on  his  march  of  glory — 
Reposing  on  his  hard-won  couch  of  fame  ! 
When  History's  pen  records  our  country's  story, 
Proudly  she'll  dwell  on  Taylor's  honored  name  ; — 
Resaca  de  la  Palma,  Monterey, 
And  Buena  Vista's  voice  shall  speak  his  eulogy. 

*  Addressed  to  Mrs.  President  Taylor  on  the  death  of  her  husband. 


c: 


1 06 


WEEP,  SISTER,   WEEP. 


Wake,  sleeper,  wake  !  behold  the  nation's  crisis  ! 
The  billows  fret  against  the  sounding  shore  ; 
Contention's  waves  are  up  ;  the  tempest  rises  ; 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep  with  angry  roar  ; 
What  hand  but  thine — but  hush,  our  God  is  here  ! 
His  hand  is  on  the  helm,  our  bark  hath  nausrht  to 
fear  ! 

All  feeling,  save  of  woe,  be  dead,  and  shrouded, 
Hid  'neath  the  pall  that  shades  our  hero's  clay  ; 
There  let  it  rest ;  the  nation's  heart  is  crowded 
With  none  save  pure  and  loving  thoughts  to-day  ! 
O  patriot,  father,  warrior  !  who  would  now 
Pluck  one   green  laurel-leaf  from    thine   illustrious 
brow  ? 


Her  words  of  consolation  Earth  hath  spoken  ; 
Hath  brought  her  balm  thy  bruised  heart  to  heal ; 
But  hast  thou  not  some  fondly-cherished  token — 
Some  Hope's  sure  anchor  cast  within  the  veil  ? 
Oh  memories  sweet !  of  mercies  asked  and  given  ! 
Angels,  on  love's  bright  wings,  wafting  our  hopes  to 
heaven  ! 


METHOUGHT    AS    I    SLEPT. 

Written  on  the  ocean,*  January  4,  1821. 

METHOUGHT  as  I  slept  on  the  tempest-tost 
wave, 
I  returned  to  green  Erin,  romantic  and  fair, 
And  bright  was  the  vision  my  wild  fancy  gave, 
And  loved  were  the  faces  that  smiled  on  me  there. 

Soon,  soon  I  arrived  at  the  home  of  my  youth, 

And  with  rapture  was  pressed  to  my  fond  mother's 
heart ; 
And   I  knew  that  each  eye  spoke  the  language  of 
truth  ; 
Every  look,  every  lip  bade  me  not  to  depart. 

I  was  blest,  for  my  father's  eye  beamed  on  his  child ! 

.  And  oh  !  but  his  look  and  his  greeting  were  bland  ; 

I  was  blest,  for  my  fond  sister  kissed  me  and  smiled, 

And  welcomed  me  back  to  my  own  native  land  ! 

*  The  thoughts  occurred  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  just  as  here  re- 
lated, and  were  written  on  awaking,  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  in  the 
depths  of  a  most  stormy  winter,  eighty-three  days  at  sea,  on  short  al- 
lowance both  of  food  and  water,  and  with  no  prospect  soon,  if  ever, 
of  making  land. 

(109) 


i 


no 


J/OA'X. 


Even  she,  whom  the  church-yard  had  treasured  so 
long, 

All  blooming"  arose  from  her  cold  dreary  grave, 
And  smiled  in  her  beauty  amid  the  loved  throng, 

And  welcomed  the  wanderer  back  from  the  wave ! 

Stay,  stay,  blessed  spirit,  oh  !  still  let  me  joy 

In  the  smile  of  thy  modest  eye,  beaming  and  blue  ; 

Thou  art  going,  sweet  angel, — oh  !  fain  would  I  fly, 
To  the  home  of  the  blessed  ones  guided  by  you. 

She  is  gone  ! — I  awake — all  is  horror  and  fear  ; 

The  tempest  is  up  and  the  wild  waters  burn  ; 
No  father — no  mother — no  sister  is  near, 

Ah  !  vainly  they  wish  for  the  wanderer's  return. 


MORN. 


MORN  is  the  time  to  wake, 
The  eyelids  to  unclose, 
Spring  from  the  arms  of  sleep,  and  break 

The  fetters  of  repose  ; 
Walk  at  the  dewy  dawn  abroad, 
And  hold  sweet  fellowship  with  God. 


Morn  is  the  time  to  pray ; 
How  lovely  and  how  meet, 


fi 


MORN.  1 1  I 

To  send  our  earliest  thoughts  away, 

Up  to  the  mercy-seat ! 
Ambassadors,  for  us  to  claim 
A  blessing  in  our  Master's  name. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  sing  ; 

How  charming  'tis  to  hear 
The  mingling  notes  of  nature  ring 

In  the  delighted  ear ; 
And  with  that  swelling  anthem  raise 
The  soul's  fresh  matin-song  of  praise  ! 

Morn  is  the  time  to  sow 

The  seeds  of  heavenly  truth, 
While  balmy  breezes  softly  blow 

Upon  the  soil  of  youth  ; 
And  look  to  thee,  nor  look  in  vain, 
Our  God,  for  sunshine  and  for  rain. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  love  : 

As  tendrils  of  the  vine, 
The  young  affections  fondly  rove, 

And  seek  them  where  to  twine  ; 
Around  thyself,  in  thine  embrace, 
Lord,  let  them  find  their  resting-place. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  shine, 
When  skies  are  clear  and  blue, 


112 


MORN. 


Reflect  the  rays  of  light  divine, 
As  morning  drops  of  dew  ; 
Like  earl)7  stars  be  early  bright, 
And  melt  away  like  them  in  light. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  weep 
O'er  morning  hours  misspent ; 
Alas  !  how  oft  from  peaceful  sleep, 

On  folly  madly  bent, 
We've  left  the  straight  and  narrow  road, 
And  wandered  from  our  guardian  God  ! 

Morn  is  the  time  to  think, 
While  thoughts  are  fresh  and  free, 
Of  life,  just  balanced  on  the  brink 

Of  dark  eternity  ; 
And  ask  our  souls  if  they  are  meet 
To  stand  before  the  judgment-seat. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  die, 

Just  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
When  stars  are  fading  in  the  sky, 

To  fade  like  them  away  ; 
But  lost  in  light  more  brilliant  far, 
Than  ever  merged  the  morning  star. 

Morn  is  the  time  to  rise, 
The  resurrection  morn ; 


C 


a 


WINTER— A  FRAGMENT.  113 

Upspringing  to  the  glorious  skies, 
On  new-found  pinions  borne, 
To  meet  a  Saviour's  smile  divine  ; 
Be  such  ecstatic  rising  mine  ! 


WINTER— A    FRAGMENT. 

NOW  winter's  rude  fetter  has  silenced  each  rill, 
And  the  songsters  have  flown  from  the  heath 
and  the  hill, 
And  nought  do  we  hear  but  the  winter  winds  blow, 
And  nought  do  we  see  but  the  fast-falling  snow. 
Ah  !  woe  to  the  wight  who  must  write  in  such  wea- 
ther, 
Few  words  can  he  find  that  will  jingle  together; 
His  thoughts,  like  the  waters,  are  frozen  and  chill, 
And  the  muses  are  coy  let  him  do  as  he  will. 
Oh  !  were  it  but  summer,  when  birds  are  a-singing, 
And  butterflies  bright  o'er  the  meadows  are  winging, 
When  the  apple's  white  blossom  gives  forth  its  sweet 

balm, 
And  the  hill  yields  repose  to  the  young  mountain 

lamb, 
And  the  small  brilliant  humming-bird  stoopeth  to  sip 
The  sweet  honey-dew  from  the  woodbine's  red  lip  ; 


& 


ii4 


POE  TR  Y  A  XD  DE  I  '0  TIOX. 


When  the  murmurs  of  waters  at  twilight  will  come, 
With  the  song  of  the  honey-bee  hieing  him  home  ; 
When  all  that  is  balmy,  melodious,  and  bright, 
Come  breathing  around  him  by  day  and  by  night, 
The  harp  of  the  minstrel  unbidden  must  ring, 
The  air  which  he  breathes  will  awaken  its  string. 


POETRY    AND    DEVOTION. 

YOUNG  Poetry,  a  spirit  pure  and  holy, 
Tuned  her  sweet  harp  among  the  angels  bright, 
Till  on  a  fatal  day,  and  melancholy, 
She  saw  and  loved  an  earth-born  child  of  night — 
He  lured  her  from  those  bowers  of  calm  delight, 
Where  all  is  pure,  unmixed,  unending  pleasure, 
This  dark  and  ruined  world  with  him  to  roam — 
He  taught  her  many  a  wild  and  fitful  measure, 
Now  mournful,  and  now  gay.     In  yon  bright  dome, 
None  such  were  ever  heard,  her  pure,  immortal  home. 

Earth  hailed  with  joy  the  beauteous  stranger,  glow- 
ing 
And  warm  from  heaven,  all  light  and  melody, 
Who  came  with  liberal  hand,  on  man  bestowing 
Gifts  which  no  toil  can  earn,  no  gold  can  buy — 


POETRY  AND  DEVOTION. 


115 


The  skill  to  weave  celestial  poetry, 

To  catch  the  lightning  thoughts  that  brightly  play 

The  mental  heaven  so  gracefully  along, 

And,  lest  the  glittering  truants  flit  away, 

To  bind  them  fast  in  fetters  soft  and  strong, 

Immortal,  bright,  and  fair,  the  golden  chains  of  song. 

But  ah  !  her  thoughts  were  upward,  upward  spring- 
ing 
To  those  fair  fields  where  she  was  wont  to  roam  ; 
And  ever,  mid  her  earth-degraded  singing, 
Such  wild,  sad,  mournful  melodies  would  come, 
Such  wailings  for  her  lost  celestial  home, 
The  listening  angels  almost  wept  to  hear — 
So  tearful  rose  the  penitential  strain — 
And  thought  how   well  those    wondrous   notes,   so 

clear, 
So  long  drawn  out,  ay,  loudest  of  their  train, 
Might  fill  the  broad  expanse  of  heaven's  vast  dome 
again. 

Sweet,  but  erratic  strains  !  now  broken-hearted  ; 
Now  wild,  like  joyous  laughter  ;  now  like  sighs 
Low-breathed  for  heaven,  so  fatally  deserted — 
Her  sinless  home  in  yon  blue,  boundless  skies  ! 
Who  held  her  place  among  the  tuneful  choir? 
Upon  her  glorious  throne,  ah  !  who  might  sit  ? 
And  then  her  holy,  pure,  forsaken  lyre, 


n 


ft, 


I  1 6  POK  TR ) '  AND  DE  I  '0  TION. 

Round  which  such  winged  sweetness  used  to  flit, 
What   hands,  save    hers  alone,  could   win    the  soul 
from  it  ? 

Thus  sped  she  on,  till  in  a  temple  holy, 
Awhile  she  paused  in  contemplation  lone — 
Could  tears  have  washed  away  her  sin  and  folly, 
No  stain  had  rested  on  that  stricken  one  ; 
But  tears,  alas  !  for  guilt  can  ne'er  atone. 
Hark  to  that  rustling  wing  !     A  being  bright, 
Pure  as  the  first  young  beam  of  rising  day, 
And  girded  round  with  robes  of  dazzling  light, 
Wide  flowing,  sweeps  adown  the  orient  way, 
Alights  beside  the  maid,  and  thus  to  her  doth  say  : 

"  Oh,  hapless  one  !  though  deep,  though  dark,  thy 
sinning, 

From  yonder  realms  of  bliss  I  come  to  thee, 

Long  loved,  long  mourned  for,  from  the  fair  begin- 
ning 

Of  life's  young  dawn,  my  destined  bride  to  be  ; 

Fair  mourner,  dry  those  tears ;  thou  yet  may'st 
see 

Long  years  with  happiness  and  hope  complete. 

Devotion  I  !     To  me  the  bliss  is  given, 

To  ope  for  thee  fair  glory's  pearly  gate  ; 

Behold  thy  earth-wove  chain  is  rent  and  riven  ! 

Oh  !  fly  with  me  away  to  yon  blue,  shining  heaven  !" 


9 


LIFE'S  VOYAGE. 


117 


Blushing-  and   trembling,  like  the   crimson  blossom 

While  listening  to  young  Zephyr's  first  love-tale, 

Over  the  keeping  maiden's  brow  and  bosom, 

By  unseen  hands  was  thrown  Love's  rosy  veil ; 

Ah,  covering  beautiful,  but  far  too  frail ! 

What  boots  to  tell  of  love's  divine  emotion, 

Or  purest  joys  from  pardoned  guilt  that  spring — 

Young  Poetry,  on  wings  of  pure  Devotion, 

Arose  to  heaven,  oh  happiness  !  to  sing, 

Among  its  glorious  hosts  the  praises  of  their  King ! 


LIFE'S    VOYAGE. 

SET  the  sail  and  trim  the  boat, 
Softly  blow  the  breezes  ; 
Let  the  bright  bark  onward  float, 
Where  the  zephyr  pleases. 

Though  the  mountain's  ponderous  brow, 

Casts  its  shadow  o'er  us  ; 
Yet  the  valley's  sunny  glow, 

Is  beaming  bright  before  us. 


See,  our  sail  is  filling  fast ! 

Unlash  the  cords  that  bind  her ; 
Our  graceful  skiff  with  slender  mast, 

Soon  leaves  the  shore  behind  her  ! 


F 

._3 

,    1 

n 

c 

: 

i 

I  i  8                                      LIFE'S  VOYAGE. 

Hill  and  dale  and  shady  bower, 

j 

To  our  view  advancing  ; 

• 

Lowly  hovel,  lordly  tower, 

In  the  sunbeam  glancing:. 

Now  we  hear  the  jocund  song, 

Of  the  lusty  reaper  ; 

Now  from  yonder  mournful  throng, 

Waitings  of  the  weeper. 

See  yon  gay  and  beauteous  bower, 

In  the  sunlight  glowing  ; 

And  the  fragrant  shrub  and  flower, 

In  its  shadow  growing. 

Oh  !  ye  breezes  cease  to  blow  ! 

Stay,  O  rippling  river ! 

Though  fain  to  linger,  on  we  go, 

'Tis  gone,  'tis  gone  forever  ! 

Thus  adown  the  stream  of  life, 

Time  our  bark  is  guiding ; 

Through  scenes  of  pleasure  or  of  strife, 

Onward,  ceaseless,  gliding  ! 

On  alike  through  weal  and  woe — 

On  through  joy  and  sorrow — 

How  quickly  come  !   how  quickly  go, 

C 

Noon  and  night  and  morrow  ! 

» 

( 

j 

u 

9 

0 

y 

LIFE'S  VOYAGE.  119 

Come  we  to  some  fragrant  vale, 

Fondly  would  we  linger ; 
But  the  fresh  winds  press  the  sail ; 

Time's  relentless  finger 

Onward  points — and  as  we  go, 

Memory's  pencil  only 
Can  faintly  paint  the  gorgeous  glow, 

Of  scenes  so  loved  and  lonely. 

Hill  and  dale,  how  soon  they're  gone, 

In  this  ceaseless  motion  ! 
Winds  and  waves  still  urge  us  on, 

Onward  to  the  ocean ! 

Thus  along  life's  gliding  wave, 

Morn  and  noon  and  even, 
To  the  dark  insatiate  grave, 

Forward  all  are  driven. 

Nor  stop  we  there :  still  on  we  go, 

Never,  never  ceasing — 
On  in  joy,  or  on  in  woe  ; 

In  infinite  progression. 

Soon  our  bounding  bark  will  pass, 

To  the  gulph  of  wailing  ; 
Or  soon  be  on  the  "  sea  of  glass," 

In  heaven's  own  sunshine  sailing. 


120  SABBA  Til  REMINISCENCES, 

Gracious  spirit,  in  this  vale, 
Give  us  favoring  breezes; 

Mighty  Maker,  trim  our  sail  ; 
Hold  the  helm,  O  Jesus  ! 


SABBATH    REMINISCENCES. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember,  when  Sabbath  morn- 
ing rose 

We  changed,  for  garments  neat  and  clean,  our  soiled 
and  week-day  clothes  ; 

And  yet  no  gaud  nor  finery,  no  brooch  nor  jewel  rare, 

But  hands  and  faces  polish'd  bright,  and  smoothly- 
parted  hair. 

'Twas  not  the  decking  of  the  head,  my  father  used  to 
say, 

But  careful  clothing  of  the  heart,  that  graced  that 
holy  day  ; 

'Twas  not  the  bonnet  nor  the  dress  ; — and  I  believed 
it  true, 

But  those  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  simple 
too. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  parlor  where  we  met ; 
Its  paper'd  walls,  its  polished  floor,  and  mantel  black 
as  jet ; 


SABBA  TH  REMINISCENCES.  \  2  1 

'Twas  there  we  raised  the  morning  hymn,  melodious, 
sweet  and  clear, 

And  joined  in  prayer  with  that  loved  voice  which  we 
no  more  may  hear. 

Our  morning  sacrifice  thus  made,  then  to  the  house 
of  God, 

How  solemnly,  and  silently,  and  cheerfully  we  trod  ! 

I  see  e'en  now  its  low-thatched  roof,  its  floor  of  trod- 
den clay, 

And  our  old  Pastor's  time-worn  face,  and  wig  of  sil- 
ver gray. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  hush'd  and  mute  we 

were, 
While  he  led  our  spirits  up  to   God,  in  heart-felt 

melting  prayer ; 
To  grace  his  action  or  his  voice,  no  studied  charm 

was  lent, 
Pure,  fervent,  glowing  from  the  heart,  so  to  the  heart 

it  went. 
Then  came  the  sermon  long  and  quaint,  but  full  of 

gospel  truth, — 
Ah  me  !  I  was  no  judge  of  that,  for  I  was  then  a 

youth  ; 
But  I  have  heard  my  father  say,  and  well  my  father 

knew, 
In  it  was  meat  for  full-grown  men,  and  milk  for  chil- 
dren too. 


*HJ 


I  22 


SABBA  Til  REMINISCENCES, 


I  remember,  I  remember,  as  'twere  but  yesterday, 

The  Psalms  in  Rouse's  version  sung,  a  rude  but  love- 
ly lay  ; 

Nor  yet,  though  fashion's  hand  has  tried  to  train  my 
wayward  ear, 

Can  I  find  aught  in  modern  verse  so  holy  or  so  dear  ! 

And  well  do  I  remember,  too,  our  old  precentor's 
face, 

As  he  read  out  and  sung  the  line  with  patriarchal 
grace  ; 

Though  rudely  rustic  was  the  sound,  I'm  sure  that 
God  was  praised, 

When  David's  words  to  David's*  tune,  five  hundred 
voices  raised. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  morning  sermon  done, 
The  hour  of  intermission  come,  we  wander'd  in  the 

sun  ; — 
How  hoary  farmers  sat  them  down  upon  the  daisy 

sod, 
And  talk'd  of  bounteous  nature's  stores,  and  nature's 

bounteous  God  ; 
And  matrons  talk'd,  as  matrons  will,  of  sickness  and 

of  health, 
Of  births,  and  deaths,  and  marriages,  of  poverty  and 

wealth  ; 


*  St.  David's  was  one  of  the  few  tunes  used  by  the  congregation  al 
hided  to. 


SABBATH  REMINISCENCES. 


123 


And  youths  and  maidens  stole  apart,  within  the 
shady  grove, 

And  whisper'd  'neath  its  spreading  boughs,  per- 
chance some  tale  of  love. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  to  the  church-yard 

lone 
I've  stolen  away,  and  sat  me  down  beside  the  rude 

grave-stone, 
Or  read  the  names  of  those  who  slept  beneath  the 

clay-cold  clod, 
And  thought  of  spirits  glittering  bright  before  the 

throne  of  God  ; 
Or  where  the  little  rivulet  danced  sportively   and 

bright, 
Receiving  on  its  limpid  breast  the  sun's  meridian 

light, 
I've  wander'd  forth,  and  thought  if  hearts  were  pure 

like  this  sweet  stream, 
How  fair  to  heaven  they  might  reflect  heaven's  un- 
created beam. 


I  remember,  I  remember,  the  second  sermon  o'er, 

We  turn'd  our  faces  once  again  to  our  paternal  door ; 

And  round  the  well-fill'd,  ample  board,  sat  no  reluc- 
tant guest, 

For  exercise  gave  appetite,  and  loved  ones  shared 
the  feast. 


fi= 


j  2  a  SA  BBA  Til  REMINISCENCE  S. 

Then  ere  the  sunset  hour  arrived,  as  we  were  wont 

to  do, 
The  catechism's  well-conn'd  page,  we  said  it  through 

and  through, 
And  childhood's  faltering  tongue  was  heard  to  lisp 

the  holy  word, 
And  older  voices  read  aloud  the  message  of  the  Lord. 

Away  back  in  those  days  of  yore,  perhaps  the  fault 

was  mine, 
I   used  to  think  the    Sabbath-day,  dear   Lord,   was 

wholly  thine  ; 
When  it  behoved  to  keep  the  heart,  and  bridle  fast 

the  tongue, 
But  those  were  very  simple  times,  and  I  was  very 

young  ; — 
The  world  has  grown  much  older  since  those  sun- 
bright  Sabbath  days, 
The  world  has  grown  much  older  since,  and  she  has 

changed  her  ways  ; 
Some  say  that  she  has  wiser  grown, — ah  cue  !  it  may 

be  true, 
As  wisdom   comes  by  length  of  days — but  so  does 

dotage  too. 

Oh  !    happy,   happy  days  of  youth,  how  beautiful, 

how  fair,  [ways  arc  ! 

To  memory's  retrospective  eye,  your  trodden  path- 


8 


CLOSE  OF  A    YEAR.  \2^ 

The  thorns  forgot,  remember'd  still  the  fragrance 
and  the  flowers, 

The  loved  companions  of  my  youth,  and  sunny  Sab- 
bath hours  ! 

And  onward,  onward,  onward  still  successive  Sab- 
baths come, 

As  guides  to  lead  us  on  the  road  to  our  eternal  home, 

Or  like  the  vision'd  ladder  once  to  slumbering  Jacob 
given, 

From  heaven  descending  to  the  earth,  led  back  from 
earth  to  heaven  ! 


CLOSE    OF    A    YEAR. 

DEPARTED,  departed  !     Oh  !  yes,  it  is  gone, 
And  many  may  weep  in  their  sadness  alone  ; 
For  hearts  that  beat  warmly  and  high  at  its  birth, 
Now  pulseless  and  cold  are  laid  low  in  the  earth  ! 
And  cheeks  that  were  rosy  and  eyes  that  were  bright, 
Are  faded  and  quenched  in  the  darkness  of  night. 
Ah  !  few  can  look  round  in  the  home-nursed  parterre, 
And   miss    not   some   blossom   that  once   flourished 

there  ; 
Some  dear  one  decaved,  that  no  sunshine  or  rain 
Can  restore  to  its  bloom  or  its  beauty  again. 


126  CLOSE  OF  A    YEAR. 

Or  if  none  have  been  taken,  perchance  there  may  be 
Some  lovely  fair  floweret  that  droops  on  the  tree ; 
Some  withering  rose-bud  we  fondly  would  save, 
More  lovely,  more  prized  as  it  ripes  for  the  grave. 
Oh  !  weep  not,  for  yet  that  fair  blossom  may  be 
Restored  to  expand  on  its  own  native  tree ; 
Or  safely  removed,  where  no  blighting  can  come, 
In  the  garden  of  God  in  its  fragrance  to  bloom — 
To  cheer  and  refresh  you  when  you  too  shall  go 
From  a  world  that  is  fruitful  in  weeping  and  woe. 
Sweet,  sweet  is  the  promise  the  gospel  has  given, 
Earth's  tears  shall  be  dried  in  the  sun-light  of  heaven  ! 

And  where  is  the  mother  can  lift  up  the  lid 

From  the  casket  where  home's  brightest  jewels  are 

hid, 
And  miss  not  some  gem  that  a  twelvemonth  ago 
Has  cheered  her  fond  heart  with  its  brilliance  and 

glow ! — 
Some  sweet  little  diamond  that  sparkled  and  shone, 
The  choicest,  the  rarest,  her  dearest,  her  own ! 
Yet  weep  not,  O  mourner !  more  lustrous  its  ray, 
'Midst  the  treasures  of  heaven  laid  safely  away  ; 
Undimmed  by  the  tear-drops  of  sin  and  of  care, 
Which  tarnish  the  brightness  of  all  that  is  here; 
Restored  and  reset  it  may  glitter  and  shine, 
In  the  crown  of  rejoicing  that  yet  shall  be  thine  ! 


0 


THE  HOME  MISSIONARY.  i2J 


THE     HOME     MISSIONARY; 

OR, 

WORSHIP   IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 

TO  our  lowly  sanctuary, 
Reared  amid  the  cooling  shade, 
Comes,  to-day,  the  missionary, 
Here  to  break  the  living  bread. 

Seldom  drops  the  dew  of  Hermon 
On  this  thirsty  forest  ground, 

Seldom  doth  a  song  of  praises 

Through  these  sylvan  arches  sound. 

Seldom  moves  the  healing  waters, 
By  the  living  preacher  stirred ; 

Seldom  is  the  gospel  message, 
By  these  forest  children  heard. 

Spread  the  tidings,  spread  the  tidings ! 

Tell  the  story  far  and  wide  ! 
Come  from  valley,  glen  and  mountain, 

Come  from  hill  and  dingle  side. 


<sr 


128  THE  HOME  MISSIONARY. 

Come,  though  humble  be  our  temple; 

Come,  though  rude  its  shrine  may  be; 
Contrite  hearts  are  holy  altars ; 

Sweet  their  incense,  Lord,  to  thee. 

Hunter  of  the  tangled  thicket, 
Hither  with  thy  children  come ; 

Lead  them  to  this  open  fountain ; 
Guide  them  to  a  heavenly  home. 

Mother,  on  thy  tender  bosom 

Bring  the  babe  that  God  hath  given  ; 

Here  present  thy  cherished  blossom, 
Sign  and  seal  its  name  for  heaven. 

Grandsire  old,  and  weak,  and  weary, 
Tottering  down  life's  pligrimage  ; 

Hear  once  more  the  life-fraught  message ; 
Listen  to  the  sacred  page. 

Man  of  God,  no  longer  tarry, 

Come,  thy  waiting  flock  to  greet ; 

Feed  them  with  the  heavenly  manna ; 
Lead  them  to  the  Mercy-seat. 

Ah!  thou  comest,  weary  stranger! 

Traveller  of  a  thorny  road  ; 
Yet  is  thine  a  glorious  calling, 

Servant  of  a  faithful  God. 


c 


THE  HOME  MISSIONARY.  129 

What,  though  toil  and  want  depress  thee ; 

What,  though  darkening  clouds  may  lower; 
This  is  not  thy  home,  my  brother, 

Traveller  of  a  stormy  hour. 

Christ,  thy  master  and  thy  pattern, 

Had  not  where  his  head  to  rest ; 
Roll  on  him  thy  care,  thy  sorrow ; 

Lean,  when  fainting,  on  his  breast. 

This  is  not  thy  home,  my  brother ! 

Soon  a  welcome  voice  shall  come, 
Well  done,  servant  good  and  faithful, 

Leave  thy  labors,  hasten  home. 

Home,  to  that  bright  world  above  thee  ; 

Home,  where  saints  and  martyrs  be ; 
Home,  with  Christ,  thy  elder  brother, 

There  remains  a  rest  for  thee. 

Earth  receding,  heaven  appearing, 
Peace  and  joy,  and  Eden's  bowers  ; 

Oh  !  to  die  as  doth  the  righteous ; 
Be  like  his  my  closing  hours. 

As  weary  stars,  their  night-watch  ended, 
Steal  to  sleep  in  sunbeams  bright, 

So  to  heaven  the  saint  retireth, 
Paling,  fading,  lost  in  light. 


1 30  ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 


ANNIVERSARY    HYMN.* 

ON  a  mount,  whose  far  summit  o'erlooked  the 
dark  wave 
Of  the  Delaware,  rolling  majestic  away — 
Where  the  Lehigh  its  tribute  of  bright  waters  gave, 
And  the  Bushkill  leaped  forth  like  a  child  at  its 
play. 
Alone  in  his  sadness  a  desolate  sagfe 

Looked  down  on  the  scene  thro'  the  mist  of  his 
tears ; 
Tho'  furrowed,  his  brow  was  not  furrowed  by  age  ; — 
Tho'  many  his  sorrows,  yet  few  were  his  years. 

And  weary  and  far  was  the  way  he  had  trod — 

And  long  had  he  labored ;  alas,  it  was  vain  ! 
He  led  the  dark  sons  of  the  forest  to  God, 

But  oh  !  they  had  turned  to  their  idols  again. 
He  knelt  in  the  depths  of  his  agony  there  ; 

And  bitter  and  sad  were  the  tears  that  he  shed, 
As  he  poured  forth  his  soul  to  the  Hearer  of  prayer, 

That  his  spirit  might  breathe  on  the  desolate  dead. 

•Written  by  request  for  an  anniversary  meeting  of  the  Brain  ard 
Sot  iety  ol  Lafayette  College, 


ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 


131 


For  the  heathen  he  wept ;  for  the  heathen  he  prayed  ; 

And  a  rapture  of  peace  to  his  bosom  was  given ; 
While  the  finger  of  sleep  on  his  eyelids  was  laid, 

The  veil  of  the  future  before  him  was  riven — 
And  fair  was  the  vision  that  rose  on  his  sight, 

And  soft  were  the  voices  that  whispering  stole  ; 
Like  dew  when  it  falls  on  the  flowers  at  night, 

Reviving  they  fell  on  his  sorrowing  soul. 

Oh !  then,  had  some  pitying  angel  been  sent, 

A  messenger  missioned  to  dry  up  his  tears — 
To  show  him  the  shade  of  each  coming  event, 

And  point  him  away  through  the  vista  of  years — 
Had  he  seen  on  the  spot  by  his  sorrow  bedewed, 

This  temple  majestic  in  beauty  arise  ; 
And  heard  in  the  tenantless  lone  solitude, 

Your  anthems  of  glory  ascend  to  the  skies ! 

Though  little  his  joy  to  have  known  that  you  bear 

His  name  on  the  banner  your  faith  has  unfurled — 
But  O  !  had  he  known  you  to  be  what  you  are, 

The  heralds  of  hope  to  a  perishing  world, — 
In  holiest  rapture,  his  soul  at  the  sight, 

Like  Simeon's,  had  longed  to  be  rid  of  its  clay ; 
Forgetful  of  earth  in  its  boundless  delight, 

Would  gladly  have  soared  to  its  glory  away. 

On  you  rests  his  mantle — on  you  rests  his  name ; 
The  fervor  and  hope  of  his  spirit  be  yours ; 


1T>2  INDIAN  SERENADE. 

Like  his  be  your  courage  in  glory  or  shame, 
And  faith  in  his  Saviour  your  triumph  secures ! 

Then,  Brainards,  arise  !  'tis  that  Saviour  alone, 

Commands  you  to  gird  on  the  conquering  sword ; 

And  fear  not — the  heart  of  the  fierce  and  the  proud 
Shall  bow  at  the  feet  of  your  crucified  Lord  ! 


INDIAN    SERENADE. 

A    POETICAL    TRANSLATION. 

FLOWER  of  the  forest,  awaken,  awaken! 
Beautiful  bird  of  the  prairie,  arise  ! 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  fawn,  when  her  covert  is  shaken, 
So  wild  and  so  bright  is  the  glance  of  thine  eyes. 

Like  some  drooping  flower,  which  the   evening  is 
stealing 

To  cheer  and  to  cherish  with  life-giving  dew, 
Art  thou,  my  beloved,  thus  thy  kindness  revealing— 

I  am  the  faint  blossom  ;  the  dew-drop  are  you. 

The  breath  from  thy  lips  all  the  fragrance  discloses, 
Of  buds  that  still  glitter  with  morn's  dewy  tear ; 

Sweet,  sweet  as  the  perfume  exhaling  from  roses, 
When  they  breathe  their  last  sigh  upon  autumn's 
cold  bier. 


c 


INDIAN  SERENADE.  133 

As  springs  to  the  sunshine  the  young  fountain  gush- 


incr 


Or  sparkles  and  sports  in  the  moonbeam  at  night, 
So  the  blood  from  my  heart,  at  thy  bright  presence 
rushing, 
Springs  joyful  to  blush  in  thy  life-giving  light. 

As  branches  that  dance,  when  the  zephyrs  at  even 
Sing  to  them  sweet  strains,  as  they  wander  along, 

So  joy  to  my  soul  by  thy  coming  is  given, 
So  dances  my  heart  to  the  voice  of  thy  song. 

Dost  thou  frown,  my  beloved  ! — as  the  fair-shining 
river 

Is  darkened  by  clouds  in  the  heavens  above, 
Thus  shadows  are  thrown  o'er  my  happiness  ever, 

If  clouds  should  o'ercast  our  bright  heaven  of  love. 

Dost  thou  smile — how  my  troubled  heart  brightens 
and  dances, 

Like  that  stream  when  the  sunshine  is  on  it  anew ; 
And  the  ripple  of  sorrow,  how  gayly  it  glances 

In  the  sunbeam  of  pleasure  it  catches  from  you. 

My  own  self!    Behold  me  !    My  life-blood,  my  treas- 
ure ! 
Earth,  heaven,  and  waters,  are  smiling  and  gay ; 
But  /  cannot  smile,  for  the  sunshine,  the  pleasure, 
From  life  hath  departed  since  thou  art  away. 


8 


134 


THE  CO  U LIN. 


Then  flower  of  the  forest,  awaken  !  awaken  ! 

Beautiful  bird  of  the  prairie,  arise  ! 
Like  the  timid  young  fawn  when  her  covert  is  shaken, 

Come  forth,  for  I  live  in  the  light  of  thine  eyes. 


THE    CCULIN.* 


OH  !    where   shall  the   bosom    with   sorrow  op- 
pressed, 
For  its  woe  find  a  balm,  for  its  weariness  rest  ? — 
When  the  wine-cup  is  sparkling,  and  fragrant,  and 

bright, 
Go  seek  for  lost  peace  amid  social  delight, 

Or  where  the  bright  eyes  of  the  beautiful  shine, 
Where  lips  are  more  rosy,  more  fragrant  than  wine  ; 
Go  seek  for  a  solace  mid  pleasure's  gay  train, 
'Till  joy  shall  revisit  thy  bosom  again. 

Ah  me  !  I  have  sped  to  the  banquet  and  ball ; 
And  life's  choicest  pleasures,  I've  tasted  them  all ; 
And  gazed  upon  beauty  when  brightest  in  bloom, 
'Till  fading  it  sunk  in  the  night  of  the  tomb  ! 

*  One  of  the  most  touching  and  exquisitely  beautiful  melodies  ex- 
tant, is  the  old  Irish  air  called  "The  Coulill." 

The  principal  aim  of  the  present  writer  was  to  accommodate  the 
language  to  the  slow  and  sad  character  of  the  music,  and  make  it  suffi 

ciently  brief  for  singing  as  an  accompanimenl  to  an  instrument. 


fl 


THE  FAIR  AT  W YOMING.  \ 3 5 

Then  tell  me  of  something  more  lasting,  more  fair — 
Of  pleasures  less  fleeting  than  earth's  pleasures  are  ; 
Like  the  shelter  of  Jonah,  her  comforts  decay  ; — 
When  our  need  is  the  sorest  they  wither  away  ! 


THE    FAIR    AT    WYOMING.* 

TO   THE   LADIES   OF  "THE   WYOMING   MONUMENTAL 

ASSOCIATION." 

The  Ladies  of  Easton  send  greeting  : 

Dear  Sisters, — 

WE  beg  you  accept  of  the  gift  we  bestow, 
For  the  object  we  greatly  approve  ; 
The  names  to  exalt  of  the  dead  who  lie  low, 
'Neath  the  soil  of  the  valley  you  love. 

A  valley  baptized  in  the  blood  of  the  brave, 
Meetest  spot  on  the  earth  for  a  warrior's  grave  ; 
The  hero  who  sleeps  'neath  its  blood-bedewed  sod, 
Is  the  hero  who  fought  for  his  hearth  and  his  God. 

Let  the  sons  of  those  sires  forget,  if  they  may, 
The  men  and  the  means  that  ennoble  their  clay ; 

*  The  gentlemen  of  the  Valley  of  Wyoming  having  failed  in  their 
endeavors  to  procure  the  requisite  means  to  finish  the  monument  to 
the  memory  of  those  who  were  massacred  on  the  memorable  3d  of 
July,  177S,  the  ladies  some  time  since  took  the  task  upon  themselves, 
and  after  some  months  of  energetic  endeavor,  displayed  the  fruits  of 
their  industry  and  skill  at  a  grand  fair,  which  they  held  for  three  days 
in  the  Court  House  at  Wilkesbarre. 


J 


136  THE  FAIR  AT  WYOMING, 

Let  the  State  that  reaps  laurels  from  fields  of  their 
Refuse  e'en  a  wreath  to  encircle  their  name  ;     [fame, 
Yet  arise,  O  ye  Gertrudes  !  and  honor  the  spot, 
Lest  the  days  and  the  deeds  of  the  dead  be  forgot. 

As  we  claim  to  be  sisters,  we  claim,  too,  a  share, 
In  the  mound  of  the  brave  which  is  raised  by  the  fair. 
Oh,  may  hearts  as  heroic  the  weak  ever  save, 
And  fair  ones  as  grateful  embellish  their  grave  ! 

Yet  judge  not  the  heart  by  the  trifle  it  sends, 

But  take  it  just  as  its  intended  ! 
Could  we  send  you  a  ready-built  monument,  friends, 

Believe  us,  we'd  cheerfully  send  it. 

There  's  a  Basket  of  Fruit,  ripe,  ruddy  and  fair, 

Yet  hardly  as  fair  as  the  donor  ; 
And  a  Pair  of  Cloth  Slippers  for  gentleman's  wear, 

Which  must  be  made  up  by  the  owner. 

There  are  Cushions  to  set  on  your  toilet  so  neat, 
There  's  a  Basket  of  Shells  from  the  ocean  ; 

And  two  Boxes  embroidered  with  roses  so  sweet, 
Well  fitted  to  hold  any  notion. 

There  are  Lamp-stands  and  Lamp- lighter  Boxes  to  boot, 

And  Bags  fit  for  ladies  to  carry, 
And  ten  "  I  lard-times  Pocket-books" — Say,  will  they 

The  beaux  who  reside  in  Wilkcsbarrc  ?  [suit 


ou. 


THE  FAIR  AT   WYOMING. 


137 


We  send  you  a  Lady,  her  name  is  Ruth  Prim, 

A  pattern  of  neatness  and  beauty  ; 
Let  some  bachelor  take  her,  she'll  be  unto  him 

A  model  of  silence  and  duty! 

There  's  a  Cart  and  a  Wheelbarrow,  both  to  assist 

In  raising  your  monument  higher  ; 
And  two  handsome  Card  Baskets,  none  can  resist 

Their  neatness  and  grace  to  admire ! 

There  's  a  Basket  of  Coral,  a  Harp,  a  Guitar, 

And  Slippers,  for  fairies  intended  ; 
There  's  an  Apron  of  Silk  for  a  lady  to  wear, 

And  if  torn,  there  are  Needles  to  mend  it. 

There  's  a  Bag  that  was  made  by  a  neat  little  girl, 
Her  years,  as  you  see,  are  not  many ; 

Of  crewel  'tis  worked,  of  the  color  called  pearl, 
And  we  call  her  our  dear  little  Annie. 

If  aught  is  forgotten,  pray  pardon  the  muse — 
To  err,  like  her  sex,  she  's  addicted  ; 

Her  mite  to  contribute,  how  could  she  refuse  ? 
Though  in  time  she  was  greatly  restricted. 

On  Behalf  of  the  Ladies  of  Easton. 
June  25,  1841. 


138 


THE  MUSE'S  QUARREL. 


THE    MUSE'S    QUARREL. 

DEAR  LEO,  I've  had  such  a  time, 
I'll  strive  to  tell  you  all  in  rhyme, 
But  first,  the  piece  you  must  excuse, 
For  I  have  quarreled  with  the  muse. 
Up  to  Parnassus'  summit  steep, 
I  stole  and  found  her  fast  asleep  ; 
Ere  I  came  near,  I  heard  her  snoring-, 
But  thought  it  was  old  Boreas  roaring ; 
For  in  the  caverns  thereabout 
He  sometimes  keeps  his  revel  rout ; 
I  waked  her,  softly  saying,  Dear 
Le'  Heckman  's  brought  her  album  here, 
She  wished  that  I  a  piece  would  write, 
And  so  I  will,  if  you  indite  ; 
But  the  vexed  vixen,  'cause  I  woke  her, 
Was  stiff  as  if  she'd  eat  the  poker, 
And  albums  all,  such  was  her  fury, 
Condemned  without  a  judge  or  jury — 
Called  them  abominable  things, 
With  their  gay  backs  and  paper  wings, 
And  painted  doves,  more  like  the  raven, 
None  such  ere  winged  the  azure  heaven  ! 


A 


C 


THE  MUSE'S  QUARREL.  j^g 

And  vases  looking  more  like  glue-pots  ! 

And  then  their  Cupids  ! — oh  their  Cupids  ! ! 

The  little  thick-legged  funny  creatures, 

With  snubby  noses,  vulgar  features, 

Painted,  no  doubt,  by  maid  or  wife, 

Who  ne'er  saw  Cupid  in  her  life  ! 

Their  verses  ! — there  her  choler  rose  up, 

And  at  the  rhyme  she  turned  her  nose  up, 

Vowed  they  had  heaped  reproach  upon  her, 

Covered  her  calling  with  dishonor. 

Attribute  them  to  her — indeed  ! 

She  wrote  them  not  nor  would  she  read — 

You'd  scarce  believe  me,  I'm  afraid, 

If  I  should  tell  you  all  she  said  ; 

I  tried  to  soothe,  said  all  was  true, 

Yet  begged  she'd  write  one  verse  for  you ; 

Said  I,  the  maid,  you  know,  is  fair, 

And  light  and  bright  and  debonair, 

And  then,  dear  Muse,  from  me  and  you, 

Why  anything  almost  will  do — 

Some  wondrous  tale  of  maiden  bright, 

Who  with  her  eye-beams  slew  a  knight — 

Or  fairies,  who  by  thousands  dwell 

Within  the  tiny  heather  bell — 

Or  dewy  morning's  rising  ray — 

Or  twilight  sinking  soft  away — 

Or  zephyr  in  the  moonlit  bowers, 

Dancing  all  night  with  bright  young  flowers, 


140 


THE  MUSE'S  QUARREL. 

Who  might  have  better  slept,  you  know, 

Than  waste  their  midnight  moments  so — 

Or  maidens,  whose  black  brilliant  eyes 

Make  hearts  evaporate  in  sighs — 

Or  blue-eyed  beauty's  milder  ray, 

That  melts  them  into  tears  away — 

Or  cavern  deep — or  mountain  high — 

Or  stars  careering  through  the  sky — 

Or  bachelor,  who  dwells  alone 

In  some  snug  cottage  of  his  own — 

Or  ancient  maid,  who  sighs  to  share 

His  cottage  home  and  cottage  fare — 

In  short,  I  touched  on  every  theme — 

The  waking  thought — the  midnight  dream — 

Down  to  the  deeps  where  sea-nymphs  dwell, 

I  went  in  fancy's  diving  bell ; 

Stept  in  and  spent  a  pleasant  night 

With  Neptune  and  his  Amphythrite. 

The  kind  old  lady  showed  me  all 

The  wonders  of  her  ocean-hall ; 

Walked  with  me  in  the  coral  groves, 

Where  blushing  mermaids  tell  their  loves  ; 

Shewed  me  the  rocks  where,  buried  deep, 

Pearls  in  their  oysters  snugly  sleep ; 

I  saw  the  Mother-Cary's  chicken, 

Quite  tame  around  their  barn-yard  picking — 

A  shark  ! — the  air  became  exhausted  ; 

I  gave  the  signal  to  be  hoisted  ; 


* 

_3 


THE  MUSE'S  QUARREL.  141 

But  though  I  stoutly  pulled  the  rope, 

The  gypsy  would  not  help  me  up  ; 

But  when  I  rose,  as  when  I  sank, 

The  Muse  sat  stubborn,  silent,  blank. 

I  next  tried  politics — the  nation — 

The  railroad  cars  and  gravitation — 

Mechanic  powers  I  brought  to  view 

The  axle,  lever,  wedge  and  screw — 

I  talked  of  comets  in  their  courses — 

Circassian  maids,  and  Arab  horses — 

Feared  that  the  moon  to  earth  might  fall, 

Compelled  by  force  centripetal — 

I  spoke  of  pyramids  and  kings, 

Egyptian  mummies  and  such  things — 

Of  Lafayette  and  Washington — 

The  brilliant  star — the  glorious  sun — 

I  even  spoke  of  hanging — drowning — 

And  slightly  mentioned  Major  Downing — 

Brought  forth  the  microscope  and  prism, 

And  caviled  at  materialism — 

At  length  I  cried,  if  all  things  fail, 

Let's  write  a  sonnet  to  a  whale  ! — 

Indignant  then,  she  turned  her  shoulder, 

And  spread  her  wings  ;  'twere  vain  to  hold  her, 

But  looking  back  amidst  her  flight, 

She  bade  me,  once  for  all,  good-night. 


■fi  ^j=> 


ru 


142 


THE  LAST  OF  SALADIN. 


THE    LAST    OF    SALADIN. 

WHO  lieth  there  so  pale  and  meek, 
With  death-stamp,  moist'ning  brow  and 
cheek, 
And  faltering  voice,  so  low  and  weak, 

Can  this  be  Saladin  ? 
O  monarch  of  the  deathless  name, 
Fair  favorite  child  of  boasting  fame  ! 
A  mightier  comes,  thy  throne  to  claim  ; 
Thy  crescent  bright,  to  win. 

No  sound  of  martial  melody, 
No  war-steed  prancing  gallantly, 
No  glittering  pomp  or  panoply 

To  wake  thy  spirit's  ire. 
Oh  !  stealthily,  at  dead  of  night, 
By  the  dim  taper's  shaded  light, 
Death  comes — oh  soul-appaling  sight ! 

To  light  thy  funeral  pyre. 


Behold  the  hour-glass  in  his  hand  ; 
See,  falling  fast  thy  glittering  sand  ; 


THE  LAST  OF  SALADIN. 

And  hark !  that  voice  whose  stern  command, 

Escape  no  mortal  may  ; 
Prepare  to  meet  the  all-conquering  foe ; 
Review  the  past,  the  weal  or  woe 
That  wait  upon  the  future  know, 

For  thou  must  die  to-day. 

The  Sultan  heard,  and  silent  long 

He  lay,  while  thoughts,  a  countless  throng, 

Came  o'er  his  soul — foul  deeds  of  wrong 

Swept  past  in  dark  array  ; 
He  tried  in  vain  to  think  of  fame, 
Of  glorious  wreath  which  bound  his  name, 
But  many  a  bleeding  spectre  came 

To  chase  bright  hopes  away. 


H3 


The  musing  monarch  raised  his  head, 
Faint  was  the  voice  which  feebly  said, 
Bring  forth  the  sheet,  which  wraps  the  dead ; 

Unfold  my  banner  bright, 
That  dread  of  Banded  Christendom, 
Round  which  my  dauntless  guards  have  come, 
When  booming  loud  the  signal  drum, 

Gave  warning  of  the  fight, 

Remove  these  glittering  folds,  he  said, 
Attach  that  winding  sheet,  instead, 
So  soon  to  wrap  the  sleeping  dead  ; 
Now  call  my  minstrels  in, 


144  TIIE  LAST  OF  SALADIX. 

With  funeral  dirges,  sad  and  slow, 
And  waitings  wild,  of  deepest  woe, 
Go  forth,  and  to  my  subjects  show 
This  robe  of  Saladin. 

Say,  "  Earthly  pomp  is  all  &  dream  ; 
Her  power,  a  meteor's  passing  gleam  ; 
Her  joy,  the  evening's  parting  beam, 

Which  sinks  in  endless  night." 
Proclaim,  "  The  monarch's  state  is  gone — 
His  gorgeous  robes,  his  glittering  throne  ;- 
Remains  for  Saladin,  alone 

This  cold  fair  sheet  of  white." 

Twas  done  ;  by  that  strange  banner  led, 
Was  heard  the  warriors'  measured  tread — 
The  long  loud  waitings  for  the  dead — 

The  requiem's  solemn  tone. 
They  paused,  and  loud  and  fearfully 
Arose  the  herald's  mournful  cry, 
Proclaiming,  sad  and  dolefully, 

The  monarch's  power  was  gone. 

Again  moved  on  the  dread  array, 

Again  arose  the  solemn  lay, 

As  through  the  city's  streets,  a  way, 

Did  that  sad  pageant  win, 
And  pointing  to  that  banner  fair, 
Whose  white  folds  fanned  the  morning  air. 


5 


n 

0 

CL 

es 

c 

) 

% 

THE  LAST  OF  SALAD  IN. 

"  Behold  the  robe  that  all  must  wear — 
The  robe  of  Saladin." 

That  mournful  meeting  o'er,  the  morn 
Saw  weeping  warrior  hosts  return, 
But  Saladin  had  crossed  the  bourn 

Whence  none  return  again ; 
Robed  in  that  winding  sheet  of  snow, 
Was  laid  the  mighty  monarch  low, 
While  mournful  music,  soft  and  slow, 

Gave  forth  its  solemn  strain. 

i 

145 

b 

Where  doth  that  famous  warrior  sleep  ? 

- 

Around  what  chamber  silent,  deep, 

Do  wakeful  guards  sad  vigils  keep, 

O'er  sacred  dust  within  ? 

Alas  !  long  years  have  rolled  away, 

And  clay  hath  mingled  so  with  clay, 

That  none  on  earth  may  dare  to  say, 

"  Here  sleepeth  Saladin." 

Come,  then,  ye  great,  a  lesson  learn, 

List  to  a  teacher,  dark  and  stern, 

Who  often  comes  when  most  ye  yearn 

For  Earth's  gay  pageantry, 

To  tell  you  that  Earth's  hopes  are  vain ; 

Her  woes,  the  worst,  a  transient  pain, 

And  dust  to  dust  must  end  the  strain 

c 

Of  life's  best  melody. 

- 

i 

( 

) 

""■"" "3 

Ir- 

y 

y 

I46  TWO  HUNDRED   YEARS  AGO. 


9 


TWO    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO.* 

TWO    hundred   years,  two   hundred   years,   our 
bark  o'er  billowy  seas 
Has  onward  kept  her  steady  course,  through  hurri- 
cane and  breeze ; 
Her  Captain  was  the  Mighty  One — she  braved  the 

stormy  foe, 
And  still  He  guides  who  guided  her  two  hundred 
yeas  ago. 

Her  chart  was  God's  unerring  Word,  by  which  her 
course  to  steer, 

Her  helmsman  was  the  risen  Lord,  a  helper  ever  near; 

Though  many  a  beauteous  boat  has  sunk  the  treach- 
erous wave  below, 

Yet  ours  is  sound  as  she  was  built,  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

The  wind  that  fill'd  her  swelling  sheet,  from  many  a 

point  has  blown, 
Still  urging  her  unchanging  course  through  shoals 

and  breakers  on  ; 

*  Written  for  the  Hi-centennial  Celebration  of  the  Theological  Stan- 
dards of  the  illustrious  Westminster  Assembly  of  Divin  s. 


T WO  H UN D RED    YEARS  AGO.  j  47 

Her  fluttering  pennon  still  the  same,  whatever  breeze 

might  blow ; 
It  pointed,  as  it  does,  to  heaven,  two  hundred  years 

ago. 

When  first  our  gallant  ship  was  launch'd,  although 

her  hands  were  few, 
Yet  dauntless  was  each  bosom  found,  and  every  heart 

was  true  ! 
And  still,  though  in   her   mighty  hull  unnumber'd 

bosoms  glow, 
Her  crew  is  faithful,  as  it  was  two  hundred  years  ago  ! 

True,  some  have  left  this  noble  craft  to  sail  the  seas 
alone, 

And  made  them,  in  their  hour  of  pride,  a  vessel  of 
their  own ; 

Ah  me  !  when  clouds  portentous  rise,  when  threat- 
ening tempests  blow, 

They'll  wish  for  that  old  vessel  built  two  hundred 
years  ago ! 

For  onward  rides  our  gallant  bark,  with  all  her  can- 
vas set, 

In  many  a  nation,  still  unknown,  to  plant  her  stan- 
dard yet ; 

Her  flag  shall  float  where'er  the  breeze  of  freedom's 
breath  shall  blow,  [years  ago  ! 

And  millions  bless  the  boat  that  sail'd  two  hundred 


r\ 


J} 


& 


*— 
^ 


148  TWO  HUNDRED    YEARS  AGO. 

On  Scotia's  coast,  in  days  of  yore,  she  lay  almost  a 
wreck, 

Her  mainmast  gone,  her  rigging  torn,  the  boarders 
on  the  deck, 

There  Cameron,  Cargill,  Cochran,  fell,  there  Ren- 
wick's  blood  did  flow, 

Defending  our  good  vessel,  built  two  hundred  years 
ago! 

Ah  !  many  a  martyr's  blood  was  shed,  we  may  not 

name  them  all ; 
They  tore  the  peasant  from  his  hut,  the  noble  from 

his  hall ; 
Then,  brave  Argyle,  thy  father's  blood  for  faith  did 

freely  flow, 
And  pure  the  stream,  as  was  the  fount  two  hundred 

years  ago ! 

Yet  onward  still  our  vessel  pressed,  and  wcather'd 

out  the  gale ; 
She  clear'd   the   wreck,  and  spliced   the   mast,  and 

mended  every  sail ; 
And  swifter,  stauncher,  mightier  far,  upon  her  course 

did  go  ;  [dred  years  ago  ! 

Strong  hands  and  gallant  hearts  had  she  two  hun- 

And  sec  her  now,  on  beam-ends  cast,  beneath  a  north- 
west storm,  [from  harm  ; 
I  leave-  overboard   the   very  bread  to   save  the  ship 


TWO  HUNDRED    YEARS  AGO.  149 

She  rights  !  she  rides!  hark  how  they  cheer, — All's 

well !  above,  below  ! 
She 's  tight  as  when  she  left  the  stocks  two  hundred 

years  ago. 

True  to  that  guiding  star  which  led  to  Israel's  cra- 
dled hope, 

Her  steady  needle  pointeth  yet  to  Calvary's  bloody 
top  ! 

Yes,  there  she  floats,  that  good  old  ship,  from  mast 
to  keel  below 

Sea- worthy  still,  as  erst  she  was  two  hundred  years 
years  ago ! 

Not  unto  us,  not  unto  us,  be  praise  or  glory  given, 

But  unto  Him  who  watch  and  ward  hath  kept  for 
us  in  heaven  ; 

Who  quelled  the  whirlwind  in  its  wrath,  bade  tem- 
pests cease  to  blow, 

That  God  who  launched  our  vessel  forth  two  hun- 
dred years  ago ! 

Then  onward  speed  thee,  brave  old  bark,  speed  on- 
ward in  thy  pride, 

O'er  sunny  seas  and  billows  dark,  Jehovah  still  thy 
guide  ; 

And  sacred  be  each  plank  and  spar,  unchanged  by 
friend  or  foe,  ago  ! 

Just  as  she  left  Old  Wesminster,  two  hundred  years 


f 

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150             WELCOME,   WELCOME  I  BABY,  DEAR' 

WELCOME,  WELCOME!     BABY,   DEAR! 

TO   A   BABE    BORN   FIRST   OF  JANUARY. 

TTTELCOME,  welcome!  baby,  dear! 

»  V      First  best  gift  of  all  the  year ; 
Gladly  would  we  twine  a  wreath 
For  thee,  of  flowers  that  bloom  and  breathe ; 
But  the  muse  can  cull  no  flowers 
From  the  snow-embosomed  bowers; 
O'er  the  earth  stern  winter  casts 
Sparkling  ice,  and  piercing  blasts ; 
Bee  and  butterfly  have  fled  ; 
Flowers  have  sought  their  winter  bed ; 
Birds  to  milder  climates  flown  ; 
Autumn's  latest  leaf  is  gone  ; 
We  no  wreath  can  twine  for  thee, 
But  the  wreath  of  poesy. 
Were  it  spring-time,  we  could  bring, 
Blossoms  redolent  of  spring  ; 
If 'twere  summer,  we  would  spread 
Roses  round  thy  cradle  bed  ; 
Or  in  autumn,  we  might  twine 

l> 

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Breathing  blossoms  of  the  vine  ; 

1 

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WELCOME,    WELCOME!  BABY,  DEARt  151 

Nothing  lovely  now  is  seen, 
Save  the  deathless  evergreen  ; — 
Far  too  cold  its  verdant  bough, 
For  the  baby's  tender  brow  ; 
We  can  twine  no  wreath  for  thee,   . 
But  the  wreath  of  poesy. 

Take,  till  summer  blossoms  blow, 

Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  glow, 

Wishes  warm  that  heaven  may  shed 

Blessings  on  fair  Sarah's  head ; 

Hopes  that  still  her  life  may  be 

Like  the  snow  in  purity ; 

And  her  actions  brilliant,  all, 

As  the  sparkling  icicle  ; 

Faith,  and  hope,  and  virtue,  bright 

As  the  planets  of  the  night ; 

Like  the  light  with  which  they  glow, 

Be  thy  brightness,  borrowed  too ; 

Shining  fair  till  life  shall  be 

Merged  in  immortality. 

Welcome,  welcome  !  baby,  dear ! 
Winter  rose-bud,  welcome  here  ! 
Thou  shalt  never  feel  the  storm  ; 
Hearts  are  kind  and  hearts  are  warm  ; 
Closely  to  our  bosoms  cling, 
Lovely,  helpless,  little  thing ! 


152  WINTER  ROSE-BUD,  SUMMER  BLIGHTED. 

Summer  flowers  may  spring  around, 
Disregarded  from  the  ground, 
But  the  plants  we  nurse  with  care, 
Ever  prized  and  precious  are  ; 
May  thy  bloom  each  care  repay, 
Blossom  of  a  winter  day. 


WINTER    ROSE-BUD,  SUMMER    BLIGHTED.* 

DIED,  AGED    20,  IN    MIDSUMMER. 

WINTER  rose-bud,  summer  blighted, 
Short  thy  fragrant  stay  on  earth  : 
Alas!  the  voice  thy  requiem  singeth, 
Which  first  sang  thy  wintry  birth — 

Words  of  welcome,  words  prophetic, 
Shadowing  forth  thy  transient  stay ; 

Little  thought  the  aged  minstrel 
Thou  shouldst  fade  so  soon  away. 

Sudden  came  that  hasty  message, 
Without  sound  of  warning  given, 

Softly  whispering,  "  Come,  beloved, 
Thou  art  wanted  up  in  heaven." 

*  Although  this  properly  belongs  to  the  Elegiac  Poems,  it  is  placed 
here  as  a  sequent  e  to  the  preceding,  both  relating  to  the  same  subject. 


WINTER  ROSE-BUD,  SUMMER  BLIGHTED.  153 

Ready,  thou  ;  no  darkened  chamber, 

No  disease  thy  dross  to  fine  ; 
Lamps  all  trimmed  and  brightly  burning, 

Glowing  clear  with  light  divine. 

Angel  hands  undid  the  vesture 

Which  must  needs  aside  be  thrown — 

Loosed  thy  sandals  earth  defiled, 
Bound  thy  heavenly  garments  on — 

Broke  from  thee  each  mortal  fetter, 

Balm  upon  thy  spirit  laid, 
Round  thee  cast  thy  robe  immortal, 

Led  thee  where  no  roses  fade  ; 

Forth  from  sin  and  mortal  bondage 
Spread  their  wings  to  speed  thy  way, 

Upward,  upward,  blessed,  redeemed, 
Upward  to  eternal  day. 

There  to  meet  the  dear  departed, 

There  to  sing  as  seraphs  sing, 
"  Glory  in  the  highest,  glory," 

Glory  to  the  Saviour  King. 

We  hailed  thee  to  this  world  of  sorrow. 

We  hail  thee  now  to  worlds  of  joy, 
Oh  to  live  as  live  the  righteous ! 

Oh  to  die  e'en  as  they  die  ! 


154  T0  MY  FRIEND  M.  J. 


TO    MY    FRIEND    M.    J. 

DEAR  MAGGIE,  for  all  things  there  cometh  a 
time, 
And  the  period  has  come  to  address  you  in  rhyme : 
I  am  sitting  alone  and  the  rain  is  down  pouring — 
The  wind  through  our  button-wood's  blustering  and 

roaring. 
Mr.  G.  's  in  the  city — the  children  asleep, 
Thro'  the  glass  of  my  fancy  I'll  just  take  a  peep 
At  all  our  dear  friends  in  the  Miami  College, 
That  famed  mart  of  morals  and  arsenal  of  knowledge. 
Now  I  make  no  pretences  to  somnambulism, 
But  will  steadily  look  thro'  my  memory's  prism, 
Which  shall  trick  you  all  out  with  each  lustrous  hue, 
From  gorgeous  amber  to  pale  azure  blue. 
The  taper  is  lighted — the  table  is  set — 
Even  dear  little  Julia  is  not  gone  to  bed  yet — 
Let  me  see  ; — Is  there  missing  a  single  loved  face  ? — 
No ;  bright  as  the  past,  the  gay  present  I  trace. 
There  's  Willie  and  Nelly  their  lessons  a  conning  ; 
Stay — surely  that  is  not  bright  George  that  is  yawn- 


ing! 


There  's  Joseph  and  John,  but  I  cannot  make  out 
What  cither  the  one  or  the  other's  about;— 


TO  MY  FRIEND  M.   J. 


155 


That  s  right,  trim  the  taper — I  thank  you,  dear  Ellen, 
For  throwing  more  light  round  the  walls  of  your 

dwelling. 
Oh,  I  see,  'tis  the  night  of  the  Inauguration ! 
Your  father  was  brilliant  upon  the  occasion  ; 
He  's  weary,  and  sits  from  the  others  apart — 
Some  project  of  usefulness  swelling  his  heart — 
He  brushes  his  brow — Is't  to  drive  away  care, 
Or  to  rouse  up  the  lion  of  intellect  there? 
Your  mother  is  sealing  a  packet,  I  see, 
All  letters  for  Easton,  but  not  one  for  me ! 
Now  Julia  is  nodding  her  dear  little  head — 
There,  carry  the  slumberer  softly  to  bed. 
What,  letters !  more  letters  !  is  every  one  writing, 
And  signing,  and  sealing,  whole  pages  inditing? 
Hark  !  hark  to  that  sound  !  'tis  a  knock  at  the  door! 
Why,  there 's  Mrs.  Moffatt  herself,  to  be  sure ! 
Dear  Ellen,  how  are  you  ? — Alas  !  can  it  be 
There  are  miles  full  five  hundred  between  you  and  me? 
You  hear  not  the  greeting,  you  see  not  the  eye, 
That  by  fancy's  strong  telescope  brings  you  so  nigh  ; 
But  seal  up  your  letters,  it  surely  is  right, 
To  have  everything  ready  in  order  to-night ; 
Mr.  Scott,  the  professor,  has  just  given  warning, 
He  will  start  for  dear  Easton  by  dawn  in  the  morning; 
I,  too,  must  be  going.     Beloved  one,  good-night; 
May  your  slumbers   be  healthful,  your   visions   be 
bright ! 


156  A  BIRTH  DA  Y  ODE. 


A    BIRTHDAY    ODE. 

MY  FRIEND,  if  you  that  name  admit, 
I  come,  your  humble  laureate, 
To  wish  you  health  and  peace  and  plenty, 
And  youth's  delights,  although  twice  twenty 
Years  have  fled  since  first  your  eyes 
Beheld  the  light  of  yonder  skies. 
You  justly  claim  a  rhyme  from  me, 
My  friend  in  all  necessity, 
You  who  have  taught  me  how  to  bake, 
To  make  a  cap,  and  ice  a  cake, 
I  feel  myself  in  debt  to  thee, 
For  pattern  and  for  recipe  ; 
Your  cider,  too,  at  Christmas  time, 
Alone  might  claim  a  poet's  rhyme. 
Ah  !  little  thought  I,  far  away, 
Upon  St.  Patrick's  joyful  day, 
In  my  own  western  island-home, 
When  far  my  wandering  feet  should  roam, 
That  heaven  would  for  my  comfort  send, 
In  distant  lands,  so  kind  a  friend  ; 
That  March  contained  a  fairer  day 
Than  ever  smiled  in  blooming  May  ; 
And  Erin's  patron's  day  should  be 
Displaced  by  one  more  dear  to  me ! 


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MAR  Y  STE  WAR  T.                                  \  5 7 

Whether  at  morning  or  at  night, 
By  candle  dim  or  sunbeam  bright, 
Your  form  first  blest  a  mother's  sight, 
It  was  an  hour  of  fond  delight — 
An  hour  of  pure  unsullied  pleasure, 
When  first  she  clasped  so  rich  a  treasure. 
Nor  was  that  hour  to  her  alone 
A  joyful  and  a  happy  one, 
For  many  a  baby  then  unborn 
Has  blest  that  joyful  night  or  morn, 
And  I,  my  friend,  with  rhyme  and  reason, 
Will  ever  hail  that  happy  season. 

> 

And  now,  dear  Deborah,  farewell ! 

* 

May  every  blessing  with  you  dwell, 

May  all  your  children  live  to  be, 

A  comfort  and  a  joy  to  thee  ! 

May  you  have  happiness  and  health, 

And  always  just  enough  of  wealth, 

And  when  you  die,  for  all  must  die, 

May  you  be  happier  far  on  high. 

MARY    STEWART. 

"A  IT ARY  STEWART  !     That  name  alone, 
-L-V.-L     Might  bid  the  muses  wake  and  sing ; 

Might  lure  from  harps  their  richest  tone  ; 

c 

Might  nerve  the  hand  and  tune  the  string. 

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158                                  MARY  STEWART. 

Mary  Stewart  !     Ah  !  who  art  thou, 
That  comes  unbidden  at  my  call? 

A  diadem  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Around  thy  form  a  blood-stained  pall ! 

I  know  thee  well ;  away  !  away  ! 

Thy  history  in  blood  is  writ; 
Thy  bones  are  mouldering  to  decay, 

Thou  beautiful,  unfortunate ! 

Mary  Stewart !     Again,  again, 
A  phantom  rises  to  my  view, 

Of  peerless  form  and  graceful  mien, 
And  eyes,  bright,  beautiful  and  blue ! 

Mary  Stewart  of  Torwood  lee, 
Just  waking  up  to  joy  and  life ; 

The  shroud,  the  coffin  ;  yes,  'tis  she  ! 
A  rescued  bride,  a  happy  wife !  * 

Mary  Stewart,  the  young,  the  fair, 

Who  lives  and  breathes  among  us  now; 

Sweet  lily  of  the  Delaware, 

Hast  thou  heard  and  comest  thou  ? 

Happier  be  thy  humble  lot 

Than  hers  who  held  old  Scotia's  helm  ; 

j 

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*  See  the  legend  on  this  subject. 

1 

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VALENTINE   TO  ISABELLE. 

Thy  wide  domains  some  lovely  cot ; 
A  husband's  heart,  thy  boundless  realm 

Mary  Stewart,  when  thou  shalt  die, 
Oh  may  thy  latest  waking  be 

More  full  of  life,  and  hope,  and  joy, 
Than  hers  who  woke  on  Torwood  lee ! 

Oh  !  we  may  part,  yet  when  thine  eye 
Along  thine  album's  page  shall  stray, 

Then  let  thy  bosom  heave  one  sigh, 
For  "  Auld  lang  syne"  and  Mary  Gray. 

Easton,  Pa.,  Sept.  13,  1842. 


159 


VALENTINE    TO    ISABELLE. 

ALAS  !  alas  !  my  charming  Bell, 
Ah,  well  aday  for  me,  Bell ! 
There 's  not  a  belle  in  all  the  town, 
I  wish  so  much  to  see,  Bell. 

The  birds  are  out  on  every  spray, 

For  this  is  Valentine,  Bell, 
They  choose  their  mates,  'tis  said,  to-day, 

I  wish  I  could  choose  mine,  Bell. 


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1 60  VALENTINE  TO  ISA  BELLE. 

The  red,  red  roses  are  in  bloom, 

At  least  they  bloom  in  paper, 
And  little  snow-white  lambs  have  come 

Among  the  flowers  to  caper. 

All  winter  long,  whene'er  I  heard 
The  sweet  and  merry  sleigh-bell, 

Your  name,  your  voice,  they  brought  to  mind, 
But  you  were  far  away,  Bell. 

The  college  bell  at  five  o'clock, 
It  wakes  me  from  my  sleep,  Bell, 

Ah,  me  !  it  makes  me  think  of  thee, 
And  then  it  makes  me  weep,  Bell. 

We've  bells  enough  in  our  town, 

Of  every  size  and  tone,  Bell, 
But  ah !  these  bells  are  nought  to  me, 

I  cannot  have  my  own  Bell. 

We've  belles  that  flaunt  about  the  streets, 

And  bells  to  warn  the  sinner, 
And  bells  whose  long  and  welcome  call 

Tells  folks  to  come  to  dinner. 

We've  morning  bells  and  evening  bells, 
And  rhyming  belles  to  sing  them, 

And  belles  that  fain  would  go  to  church, 
If  beaux  would  go  and  bring  them. 


r*> 


VALENTINE   TO  ISA  BELLE.  i6l 

Oh  !  who  at  first  invented  bells? — 

It  surely  was  a  shame,  Bell, 
Ah,  me  !  he  meant  to  break  my  heart 

By  ringing  o©  your  name,  Bell. 

I  often  wish  the  winter  o'er, 

That  sleighing  may  be  past,  Bell, 

And  I  forgetting  and  forgot, 
May  rest  in  peace  at  last,  Bell. 

But  spring  will  come  and  dews  will  fall, 

At  evening  and  at  dawn,  Bell. 
And  daisies  sweet  and  butter-cups 

Will  speckle  all  the  lawn,  Bell. 

The  blushing  rose,  the  lily  pale, 

The  hyacinth  might  do,  Bell, 
And  I,  perchance,  upon  them  look 

And  never  think  of  you,  Bell. 

But  then  there  are  so  many  bells. 

So  beautiful,  so  sweet,  Bell ; 
Where'er  I  rove  at  eve  or  morn, 

They  cluster  round  my  feet,  Bell. 

I  cannot,  oh  !  I  can't  forget, 

While  flowers  remain  to  bloom,  Bell, 

Or  while  in  valley  or  on  hill 
A  bell  is  left  to  boom,  Bell. 


l62  O'ER   THINE  ALBUM* S  PAGES,   WHITE. 

But  then  the  Canterbury-bell, 
The  heath-bell  and  the  blue-bell, 

The  hare-bell  and  the  heather-bell, — 
So  modest,  just  like  you,  Bell. 

My  Isabelle  !  she  is  a  belle  ! 

And  oh  !  long  may  it  be,  Bell, 
Before  the  words,  tl  She  was  a  belle," 

Shall  be  applied  to  thee,  Bell. 

And  now  I'll  say  farewell  to  thee, 
Return  me  but  a  line,  Bell, 

And  I'll  remain,  the  live-long  year, 
Your  faithful  Valentine,  Bell. 


A 


O'ER    THINE    ALBUM'S    PAGES,  WHITE. 

O'ER  thine  album's  pages,  white, 
Let  the  young,  the  gay,  the  fair, 
Lays  of  love  and  friendship  wTrite  ; 
Let  their  names  be  graven  there. 

And  when  years  have  passed  away, 

Look  upon  its  leaves  again  ; 
List  to  what  its  pages  say, 

Speak  they  now  of  joy  or  pain? 

*  Written  for  Miss  M.  E.  B. 


-::- 


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O'ER   THINE  ALBUM'S  PAGES,    WHITE.           ^3 

Wilt  thou  not  in  silence  bend 

O'er  its  page  with  dewy  tears — 
Weep  for  many  an  absent  friend 

Passed  away  with  passing  years? 

Will  not  memory,  too,  recall, 

Hours  of  mirth  and  revelry — 
Flower-crowned  banquet,  festive  hall, 

Smiles  and  mirth  and  melody  ? — 

3 

Cheeks  that  bloomed,  no  longer  fair — 

« 

Eyes  that  shone,  no  longer  bright  ? — 

Where  the  curls  of  auburn  hair — 

Where  the  fairy  footsteps  light? — 

Where  the  bosom's  peerless  snow — 

Where  the  brow,  untouched  by  care, 

And  the  heart's  gay  laughter  now  ? — 

Ask  the  past,  for  all  are  there. 

Close  the  book — let  years  roll  on — 

Look !  thine  eye  is  dim  with  age ; 

Graved  upon  the  church-yard  stone, 

Read  each  name  that  graced  thy  page  ! 

All  in  dust  are  mingled  now  ; 

Weary  ones  have  sunk  to  rest ; 

Clods  are  on  the  brightest  brow ; 

€ 

Worms  embrace  the  fairest  breast. 

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164      CHILDREN  PLEADING  FOR   THEIR  BIBLES. 

Is  there  nothing-,  then,  but  this — 

Is  death  man's  certain  destiny  ? 
Well,  we'll  sip  life's  transient  bliss, 

And  catch  its  pleasures  ere  they  fly. 

But  years  roll  on — earth  trembling  groans, 

Too  aged  to  retain  her  trust; 
Strange  shakings  toss  the  mouldering  bones — 

Strange  dreams  disturb  the  slumbering  dust. 

It  comes — it  comes — that  dreadful  day  ! 

The  dead  awake  ;  the  tombs  are  riven  ! 
Earth  sinks  in  funeral  fires  away, 

And  naught  remains  but  hell  and  heaven  ! 


CHILDREN    PLEADING  FOR  THEIR   BIBLES. 

OUR  Bibles !  oh,  our  Bibles ! 
We  heard  our  teachers  say 
Rude  men  would  come  soon,  very  soon, 

And  take  them  all  away  ; 
But  was  not  this  the  precious  Book, 

By  God  to  children  given, 
To  lead  our  vain  and  wayward  hearts 
To  yon  blue  shining  heaven? 


CHILDREN  PLEADING  FOR   THEIR  BIBLES.      165 

Perhaps  they  never  read  our  Book, 

And  that  may  be  the  cause — 
Perhaps  they  never  have  been  taught 

Its  practice  or  its  laws  ; 
But  sure  it  would  be  most  unjust, 

As  every  one  must  know, 
Untried,  our  Bibles  to  condemn ; 

Dear  teachers,  tell  them  so. 

What  does  our  Bible  teach  us,  then? 

It  teaches  us  that  we 
Should  never  hate  nor  injure  once 

Our  greatest  enemy ! 
But  take  away  this  precious  guide, 

And  what  would  then  befall? 
Untaught  b}'  God's  restraining  word, 

We'd  learn  to  hate  you  all ! 

It  teaches  to  be  holy,  just, 

Obedient,  gentle,  kind ; 
To  aid  the  sick,  to  help  the  weak, 

To  cheer  and  lead  the  blind  ; 
To  shun  all  evil  company, 

Nor  converse  with  the  rude ! 
Oh  read  it  once,  just  only  once ! 

And  you'll  pronounce  it  good. 

And  oh  !  it  tells  of  Jesus  Christ, 
And  how  he  came  to  be 


pi 

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1 66       CIHT.DREX  PLEADING  FOR  THEIR  BIBIES. 

A  sin-atoning  sacrifice, 

To  ransom  you  and  me ; 
And  when  upon  the  cross,  he  prayed 
.    For  those  who  nailed  him  there, — 
"  Father,  forgive  them  !"     We  for  you 

Can  pray  his  dying  prayer. 

It  tells  us,  too,  of  Antichrist, 

Of  men  with  sword  and  crown, 
Who  soul  and  body  both  would  bind, 

And  trample  freemen  down  ; 
Then  if  you  take  away  our  Book, 

And  freedom  drive  from  home, 
We  may  be  yet  as  Egypt  was, 

Or,  worse,  like  priest-rid  Rome  ! 

And  father,  when  it  speaks  of  you, 

It  tells  your  sons  to  be 
In  every  thought,  and  word,  and  deed, 

Obedient  still  to  thee  ; 
But  if  they  take  our  Guide  away, 

When  you  are  old  and  poor, 
Your  sons  may  drive  your  wasted  form, 

Unpitied,  from  the  door. 

Don't  take  away  our  Bibles,  don't! 

We  need  them  every  hour, 
To  tell  us  how  we  may  escape 

J 

c 

From  sin  and  Satan's  power; 

I 

C 

J 

D                                                                                                                              C 

J 

u 

CHILDREN  PLEADING  FOR   THEIR  BIBLES.      167 

We're  bad  and  thoughtless  and  unkind, 

We  feel  it  every  day, 
But  we'll  be  worse  a  thousand  times — 

Don't  take  our  Book  away. 

Before  you  take  our  Bibles,  then, 

Just  read  them  through  and  through, 
And  if  you  find  them  wicked  books, 

We'll  give  them  up  to  you  ; 
But  sure  they  bid  us  seek  the  good, 

And  flee  from  all  that 's  ill ; 
Do  read  them  once,  just  only  once, 

Then  take  them  if  you  will. 

Indeed,  indeed,  we  cannot  give 

Our  precious  Bibles  up  ; 
Take  all  beside,  but  let  us  keep 

This  soul-sustaining  prop ! 
O  fathers,  Christians,  rulers,  friends  ! 

You  sure  have  power  to  say, 
That  none  shall  come  by  fraud  or  force, 

To  take  our  Books  away. 


II 


r 


1 


1 68  WILLIAM,   THE  NEGRO  BOY. 


WILLIAM,    THE    NEGRO    BOY. 

IT  once  befel  upon  a  day,  when  chilling  winds  did 
blow, 
And  winter  had  his  mantle  on,  of  white  and  dazzling 

snow, 
And  every  pond  and  rivulet  were  bound  in  icy  chain, 
And  boys  were  out,  well  pleased,  to  sport  upon  the 

glassy  plain. 
Oh  many  a  mother's  pride  went  forth  with  kerchief 

round  his  chin, 
And  mittens  on  his  little  hands,  and  caps  of  sable 

skin, 
And  there  was  many  a  gentle  youth  of  parents  rich 

and  high, 
There,  too,  was  William  Patterson,  a  simple  negro 

boy. 
Oh,  but  they  were  a  jolly  crew,  and  pleasant  'twas  to 

sec 
How  gracefully  upon  the  ice  they  went,  and  merrily  : 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  up,  now  down, 
While  laugh  and  joke  and  shout 
Were  heard  upon  the  sparkling  ice  and  echoed  round 

about. 


:id 


WILLIAM,   THE  NEGRO  BOY, 


169 


Alas  !  for  in  the  very  hight  of  all  their  sport  and  glee, 
The  treacherous  support  'neath  their  feet  had  broken 

suddenly. 
Down,  down,  there  went  seven  precious  souls  beneath 

the  ice-bound  wave. 
Ah  !  who,  of  all  that  shared  their  sport,  will  risk  his 

life  to  save  ? — 
On  Patterson,  Will  Patterson,  in  agony  they  cry,—  . 
Our  comrades,  come,  oh  quickly  come,  save  them  or 

they  die, — 
He  heard,  he  flew,  small  need  had  they  to  call  upon 

him  twice, 
Like  lightning's  flash  on  summer's  eve, 
He 's  down  beneath  the  ice, 
And  soon  unto  the  slippery  verge 
His  sable  arms  upbore 
Two  shivering  lads.     The  rescued  ones  are  carried 

safe  to  shore. 
I'll  save  them  all— I'll  save  them  all— the  youthful 

hero  cried. 
Again  the  generous  boy  went  down  beneath  the  chil- 
ling tide, — 
Rose  —  missed    the    opening  —  sunk  —  arose  —  then 

struggled — sunk  and  died. 
Vain  were  thy   efforts,  noble  boy,  thou'st  died  but 

could  not  save, 
And  many  a  mourning  mother's  pride  lies  with  thee 

'neath  the  wave. 


c 


i;0  WILLIAM,   TLIE  NEGRO  BOY. 

Ah  !  changed  scene — for  laugh  and  shout,  for  frolic 

and  for  glee 
Are  heard  around  that  fatal  spot  wild  shrieks  of  ag- 
ony. 
Alas !    young  Jacob   Durbrow  and   Theodore  were 

there 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  they  lay  a  loved  and 

loving  pair. 
Will   Haskell  and   young  Valentine  no  more  their 

friends  shall  see, 
And   Payne,  thy  widowed  mother  weeps  her  only 

son  in  thee. 
And  dare  we   woo  the  muse  for  thee,  dark  Afric's 

sable  son, 
Thy  name  might  shine  in  glowing  lines  engraved  in 

lasting  stone, 
For  bold  and  fearless  was  thy  heart,  tho'  black  might 

be  thy  skin, 
With  generous  love  it  beats  no  more  thy  pulseless 

breast  within, 
And  soon  unto  his  mother's  home — he  left  so  blithe 

at  morn — 
A  stiff,  cold  corse  her  darling  boy  was  sadly,  slowly 

borne, 
She  laid  him  in  his  wintry  grave — her  earthly  stay  is 

gone  ; 
Poor  woman  !  now  God  pity  her,  she  has  lost  a  noble 

son. 


n 


C 


COLUMBIA.  171 

And  now  to  all  who  may  have  read  my  short  and 
simple  lay, 

A  word  or  two  before  we  part,  an  humble  bard 
would  say, 

Oh  !  life  is  short  and  death  is  sure,  think  of  the  judg- 
ment day. 


COLUMBIA. 


# 


I. 

COLUMBIA  !  Columbia ! 
Why  weepest  thou  now — 
Why  bind  with  dark  cypress 

Thy  beautiful  brow  ? 
This  day  of  rejoicing, 
The  laurel  might  be 
More  fitting  adornment, 
Young  nation,  for  thee ! 

II. 
Oh  look  in  thy  grandeur 

Rejoicingly  forth, 
The  winds  waft  the  treasure 

From  South  and  from  North  ; 

*  Writen  for  the  Lafayette  Societies. 


H 

M 

* 

c_ 

n 

( 

) 

t 

172 

COLUMBIA. 

Thou  hast  mines  in  thy  mountains 
And  flocks  on  the  plain, 

And  thy  navies  float  proudly, 
At  home  on  the  main  ! 

III. 
Thy  harvests  are  bending 

Like  gold  in  the  breeze ; 
Thy  fruits  in  their  fragrance 

Hang  bright  on  the  trees  ; 
Thy  daughters  are  lovely, 

Thy  sons  they  are  free  ! 
And  despots  may  tremble 

While  gazing  at  thee. 

IV. 

Oh  !  tidings,  sad  tidings  ! 

Have  come  to  our  shore 
The  friend  of  our  need, 

Lafayette,  is  no  more. 
When  foes  were  around  us, 

And  help  we  had  none, 
He  flew  to  our  rescue 

Unaided,  alone  ! 

v. 
Great  sun  of  two  worlds, 

• 

j 

c 

Shall  thy  freedom-lit  ray 

1 

c 

] 

t- 

,_„  0 

c  - 

M 

f\ 

-\ 

D                                                                                                                                    C 

( 

> 

t 

COLUMBIA.                                        173 

Unheeded,  unsung, 

Pass  in  brilliance  away  ? 
While  nations  awaiting 

Have  seen  by  its  light 
That  chains  were  around  them, 

And  blushed  at  the  sight. 

VI. 

And  shall  not  a  tear 

* 

To  his  memory  be  given — 
The  angel  of  freedom, 

Vouchsafed  us  by  heaven  ? 
In  midst  of  our  triumphs, 

Oh  shall  there  not  be 

ne  moment  held  sacred 

To  sorrow  and  thee? 

VII. 

Yes,  Columbia  shall  weep 

For  the  generous,  the  brave — 
The  tears  of  her  freemen 

Shall  hallow  his  grave. 
May  we  be  forgotten, 

If  thee  we  forget, 
Thou  friend  of  the  friendless, 

Beloved  Lafayette ! 

^ 

c 

\ 

( 

- ;    -.                                                                         .,— 

j 

J  -                                 n 

E 

1 


=ff 


174  CARRIERS1  ADDRESS  OF  1861 


CARRIERS'    ADDRESS    OF   i86l. 

A       HAPPY  New  Year,  kind  friends  to  you  all, 
-£j-  And  joy  at  this  season,  whatever  befall; 
The  present  is  ours  ;  the  future— 'tis  vain 
To  sigh  for  those  secrets  we  cannot  obtain  ; 
And  trouble  and  care,  and  weeping  and  sorrow, 
No  one  that  is  wise  from  the  future  would  borrow, 
Let's  be  thankful  to-day  and  have  faith  for  to-morrow. 
Our  kindly  old  Borough  jogs  on  as  of  old  ; 
Our  weather  still  changes  from  temperate  to  cold  ; 
Our  crops,  as  you  know,  have  been  plenty  and  good, 
And  man,  beast  and  fowl  are  provided  with  food. 
Oh  let  us  be  grateful  and  ever  remember, 
The  hand  which  sustains  us  in  June  and  December! 

Ah,  me !  the  horizon  is  threatening  and  dark, 
The  billows  are  boist'rous  and  rock  our  poor  bark, 
But  let  us  stand  firm,  we  the  storm  yet  may  weather, 
A  long  pull,  a  strong  pull,  a  pull  altogether! 
Oh  !  had  such  been  our  conduct  in  days  which  are 

past, 
Our  ship  had  been  stauncher,  less  furious  the  blast- 
But  stand  up  for  the  Union  !     Steady,  boys,  steady  ! 
Be  watchful,  be  careful,  courageous  and  ready  ; 


CARRIERS'  ADDRESS  OF  1861.  175 

Be  Justice  our  motto,  and  Union  our  strength, 
And  the  God  of  our  fathers  will  save  us  at  length. 
The  heavens  shall  clear  and  the  ocean  grow  calm, 
Contention  subside.     Oh  apply  but  the  balm 
Of  brotherly-kindness  to  passions  that  boil — 
On  billows  discordant  cast  plenty  of  oil — 
Our  fair  Southern  sister  grown  friendly  again, 
Shall  meet  us  and  greet  us,  and  kindness  shall  reign  ! 

Columbia  !  our  country,  the  happy,  the  free, 

Shall  the  demon  of  discord  have  rule  over  thee  ? 

The  flag  of  the  Union  !     Oh  long  let  it  cast 

Its  broad  shadow  o'er  us,  in  sunshine  or  blast ! 

The  flag  of  our  Union  ! — no  rent  in  its  seam — 

No  stain  on  its  surface — no  shade  on  its  gleam  ! — 

"E  Pluribus  Unum,"  its  motto;  its  crest 

An  Eagle,  far-spreading  its  wings  East  and  West ; 

Her  strong  talons  grasping  the  South  and  the  North, 

All  equal,  beloved,  and  prized  for  their  worth  ; 

A  nation  united  ;  of  brothers  a  band  ; 

All  proud  to  die  for  thee,  O  dear  native  land  ! 

But  shall  brother  meet  brother  as  foeman  in  wrath — 

Shall  the  red-blood  of  kindred  flow  warm  in  our  path? 

Forbid  it,  high  heaven  !  oh  breathe  not  the  name 

Of  the   wretch  who   would   build   on   her  ruins  his 

fame  ; 
Let  his  memory  be  lost ;  let  his  name  be  a  scorn ; 
Let  the  country  disown  him  wherein  he  was  born ; 


176 


CARRIERS'  ADDRESS  OF  1861. 


An  Arnold,  a  traitor,  the  scoff  of  the  free  ; 
A  nation's  disdain  shall  be  heaped  upon  thee ! — 
"  E  Pluribus  Unum,"  why,  why  should  we  sever 
The  flag  of  our  Union  for  ever  and  ever? 


Not  very  long  since  as  I  sat  at  my  table, 

At  home,  all  alone,  I  met  with  a  fable 

So  pat  to  my  purpose,  I  thought  I  could  do 

No  better  than  cast  it  in  metre  for  you  ; 

Which,  when  you  have  time,  you  may  read  at  your 

leisure, 
And  finding  the  moral,  apply  at  your  pleasure. 
In  the  heart  of  our  country,  contented  and  calm, 
Lives  an  honest  old  farmer  we  call  Uncle  Sam  ; 
For  ever  unmoved,  he  had  lived  by  his  toil, 
And  shunned  all  contention,  commotion  and  broil; 
A  most  excellent  farm  the  old  man  he  had  gotten, 
fie  raised  his  own  corn  and  he  wove  his  own  cotton; 
And  when  in  the  evening  he  smoked  his  own  pipe, 
His  farm  gave  the  "  baccy,"  so  fragrant  and  ripe ; 
Far  stretched  out  his  land  o'er  valley  and  dale, 
He  had  game  for  the  shooting,  and  grain  for  the  flail ; 
With  meadow-land,  coal-land,  and  wood-land  in  store, 
And  horses  and  oxen  enough,  yes,  and  more! 
And  plenty  of  all  things  found  just  at  his  door! 
Was  the  old  farmer  happy  ?     Alas  !  he  was  not ! 
What!  not  happy  with  all  th'  abundance  he  got? 
Now  1*11  tell  you  the  reason  but  don't  let  it  out, 


CARRIERS'  ADDRESS  OF  1861.  iyy 

There  is  no  use  in  buzzing  one's  troubles  about ; 
'Twas  his  sons — he  had  plenty,  strong,  sturdy  lads 

all, 
Well  fitted  to  handle  the  axe  and  the  mall, 
But  prone  to  contention  and  haughty  in  spirit, 
Which  trait  from  their  mother  the  boys  did  inherit. 
Now  to  make  them  more  peaceful,  more  gentle,  po- 
lite, 
Was  the  farmer's  endeavor  by  day  and  by  night ; 
But  vain  were  his  counsels ;  his  bickering  boys 
Were  always  on  hand  with  their  uproar  and  noise, 
'Till  the  heart-broken  farmer,  as  counsel  was  vain, 
Resolved,  by  example,  their  strife  to  restrain. 
So  he  called  up  his  youngest,  a  sensible  lad, 
And  asked,  if  of  faggots  a  bundle  he  had? 
The  boy  answered,  yes,  sir ; — then  bring  them  here 

straight, 
And  call  in  the  lads — they  are  out  at  the  gate, 
All  fighting  as  usual ; — so  in  came  the  boys — 
A  moment  suspending  their  clamor  and  noise. 
Come  break  me  this  bundle.     Here,  Jack,  you're  the 

strongest. 
Jack  tried  it  in  vain.     Now,  Ben,  you're  the  longest. 
Tom,  Harry  and  Dick  at  the  bundle  did  strain, 
Putting  forth  all  their  strength,  but  their  efforts  were 

vain. 
Now  give  me  the  heap,  the  old  farmer  he  said, 
And  the  tough,  stubborn  bundle  before  him  was  laid  ; 


ft 


j^8  CARRIERS'  ADDRESS  OF  1861. 

The  string  he  undid,  and  each  rod  which  was  in  it, 
He  bade  his  sons  try  it,  was  broke  in  a  minute. 
Oh  !  boys,  said  the  farmer,  now  list  to  the  moral, 
Tis  wrong,  very  wrong,  for  you  brothers  to  quarrel. 
United,  no  effort  can  sever  or  break  you, 
No  foe  can  prevail,  and  no  mischief  overtake  you  ; 
Divided  and  parted,  and  foes  to  each  other,  [er. 

You  are  weak  as  that  twig  in  the  hands  of  your  broth- 

In  Union  is  strength  !  oh  unite  then  for  good  ; 
If  the  rich  band  together,  the  poor  shall  have  food  ; 
A  mite  from  each  coffer,  full,  full  to  o'erflowing, 
Will  foot  up  a  sum  to  set  cold  hearts  a  glowing, 
"  The  poor  you  have  always,"  and  never  before 
Did  want  plead  this  promise  more  close  to  your  door, 
What  you  give  to  the  needy  is  lent  to  the  Lord, 
He  owns  to  the  debt,  he  has  pledged  you  his  word, 
And  will  surely  repay  you  full  measure  and  more, 
Filled   up  and   packed   down,  and  yet  still  running 

o'er — 
The  investment  is  good  and  the  payment  secure— 
His  means  are  unbounded,  his  promise  is  sure.  ■ 

But  now  I  must  onward  this  cold  winter  day, 

And  with  thanks  for  your  kindness,  I  speed  on  my 

way — 
Merely  stopping  to  say  that  our  little  "  Express" 
Will  wax  bigger  and  brighter  the  more  you  caress. 


C 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  STEAMER  PRESIDENT.    iyg 

And  we,  if  our  hearts  through  our  pockets  are  filled 
up— 

With  dimes  and  with  dollars  so  burdened  and  piled 
up 

That  the  tongue  cannot  tell,  while  the  heart  can't  re- 
press it, 

We'll  call  upon  Howard  &  Co.  to  express  it. 


ON    THE    LOSS    OF    THE    STEAMER 
PRESIDENT. 

OH  sing  !  thou  muse  of  sorrow,  woe  and  death  ! 
Saw  you  that  gallant  steamship  take  her  path 
Across  the  Atlantic  ? — Boldly  forth  she  went, 
Strong,  beautiful  and  swift,  and  redolent 
Of  confidence  and  hope  ; — her  gallant  crew 
Rejoicing  in  her  might ; — but  ah,  how  few 
Among  them  deeming  of  a  mightier  power, 
Even  an  Omnipotent,  who  in  that  hour 
Had  marked  her  for  destruction  !     On,  secure, 
She  wends  her  trackless  way,  and  on  as  sure, 
As  swift,  and  mightier  far,  with  steady  wing, 
That  mighty  messenger  was  following — 
Harmless  till  the  appointed  hour — then  hurled 
The  bolt  that  hid  her  from  a  wondering  world. 


i8o 


HAR  VEST-HOME. 


HARVEST-HOME. 

ALL  hail !  delightful  season  ! 
We  come,  we  come,  we  come- 
To  raise  our  diapason, 

And  shout  for  harvest  home  ! 
Behold  our  streaming  banner, 
With  ears  of  ripened  grain  ; 
Let  heaven's  sweet  breezes  fan  her, 
And  earth  rejoice  amain  ! 

Oh  !  never  shall  the  blessings 

Our  Father's  hand  hath  given, 
Be  changed  to  that  which  mocketh* 

The  bounteous  boon  of  heaven ; 
A  pure,  unmixed  libation 

Of  praises  would  we  bring, 
Forth  from  our  full  hearts  gushing, 

Like  water  from  a  spring. 


Then  let  our  pledge  be  water, 
Pure,  sparkling,  fresh  and  free  ; 

For  earth's  fair,  fabled  daughter,  f 
What  meeter  pledge  have  we  ? 

*  Wine  is  a  mocker,  strong  drink  is  raging. — Prov.  xx.  i. 
f  Ceres,  the  goddess  of  harvest. 


HARVES  T-HOME.  \  8 1 

It  waked  her  from  her  slumbers 

Beneath  the  parched  sod  ; 
And  bade  her  rise  in  beauty, 

The  generous  gift  of  God. 

Come,  then,  each  youth  and  maiden  ; 

Come,  hoary  sire  and  dame, 
With  years  and  blessings  laden, 

Come,  laud  our  Maker's  name. 
He  blest  the  hopeful  seed-time — 

He  gave  the  needful  rain — 
And  crowned  the  glorious  harvest 

With  heaps  of  golden  grain  ! 

Behold  !  the  fields  are  lonely — 

The  merry  reapers  gone — 
And  there  the  bright  birds  only 

Keep  jubilee  alone  ! — 
Our  barns  contain  the  treasure 

Which  late  enriched  the  sod  ; 
May  hearts  in  equal  measure 

Be  filled  with  praise  to  God  ! 

Then  hail !  delightful  season  ! 

We  come,  we  come,  we  come 
To  raise  our  diapason, 

And  shout  for  harvest  home ! 


1 82  THE  CROCODILE  AND  THE  ICHNEUMON. 

Behold  our  streaming  banner, 
With  ears  of  ripened  grain  ! 

Let  heaven's  sweet  breathings  fan  her, 
And  earth  rejoice.     Amen  ! 


THE    CROCODILE    AND    THE    ICHNEUMON. 

ON  the  banks  of  the  fertile  and  many-mouthed 
Nile, 
A  long  time  ago  lived  a  fierce  crocodile, 
Who  round  him  was  spreading  a  vast  desolation, 
For  bloodshed  and  death  seemed  his  chief  occupation  ; 
'Twas  easy  to  see  no  pity  had  he ; 
His  tears  were  but  water — there  all  would  agree. 

The  sheep  he  devoured,  and  the  shepherd,  I  ween  ; 
The  herd  feared  to  graze  in  the  pasture  so  green, 
And  the  farmer  himself,  should   he  happen  to  meet. 

him, 
The  monster  ne'er  scrupled  a  moment  to  eat  him. 
There  never  before  was  panic  so  sore 
On  the  banks  of  the  Nile  as  this  creature  spread  o'er. 


Wherever  he  went  all  were  flying  before  him, 
•  ugh  : 
him, 


Though  some  in  their  blindness  thought  fit  to  adore 


& 


Z> 


c 


THE  CROCODILE  AND   THE  ICHNEUMON.        183 

But  as  they  came  near,  each  his  suit  to  prefer, 
This  god  made  a  meal  of  his  base  worshiper. 
By  day  and  by  night  it  was  his  delight 
His  votaries  to  eat — it  was  serving  them  right. 

Grown  proud  of  his  prowess,  puffed  up  with  success, 
The  reptile  must  travel — how  could  he  do  less  ? 
So  one  fine  summer  morning  he  set  out  by  water 
On  a  pleasure  excursion — his  pleasure  was  slaughter, 
To  Tentyra's  isle,  to  visit  awhile, 
The  careless  inhabitants  there  to  beguile. 

Though  the  Tentyrites  thought  themselves  able  be- 
fore 
To  conquer  each  monster  that  came  to  their  shore, 
Yet  now  they  with  horror  were  fain  to  confess, 
That  this  crocodile  gave  them  no  little  distress. 
So  in  great  consternation  a  grand  consultation 
Was  called  to  convene,  of  the  heads  of  the  nation. 

It  met ;  but,  alas  !  such  the  terror  and  fright, 

They  failed  to  distinguish  the  wrong  from  the  right ; 

When  just  at  this  crisis  an  ichneumon  small 

Stepped  forth  on  the  platform  in  front  of  them  all. 

With  modesty  winning,  to  give  his  opinion 

Of  measures  and  means  to  secure  the  dominion. 

"  Grave  sirs,"  said  he,  bowing,  "  I  see  your  distress, 
And  your  griefs  are,  I  fear  me,  past  present  redress ; 


6 


184         THE  CROCODILE  AND   THE  ICHNEUMON. 

Yet  still,  if  to  listen  should  be  your  good  pleasure, 
I  think  I  can  help  you,  at  least  in  a  measure ; 
For  'tis  my  impression  a  little  discretion 
Than  valor  itself  is  a  far  greater  blessing. 

"  No  doubt  'tis  a  noble  and  great  undertaking, 
Great  war  on  a  mighty  great  foe  to  be  making ; 
But  still,  I  assure  you,  'tis  better  by  far 
Not  to  let  this  great  foe  become  mighty  for  war; 
While  the  crocodile  lies  in  an  egg  of  small  size, 
To  crush  him  at  once  you  should  never  despise. 

"  You  see  me  before  you  a  poor  feeble  creature  ; 
Yet  I  cope  with  this  monster,  for  such  is  my  nature ; 
And  while  you  have  met  here  in  grand  consultation, 
This  one  crocodile  to  expel  from  the  nation, 
I  thought  it  a  treat  for  my  breakfast  to  eat 
A  dozen  or  more  which  I  happened  to  meet." 

And  now  that  my  fable  is  pretty  near  ended, 

I  think  there  should  be  a  brief  moral  appended  : 

Beware  how  you  let  evil  habits  grow  up ; 

While  feeble  and  young,  you   to  crush  them   may 

hope, 
But  let  them  remain  till  strength  they  attain, 
You  may  find  your  best  efforts  to  conquer  them  vain. 


ni 


FRANCES  DILL. 


I85 


FRANCES     DILL. 

A  TALE   TOO   TRUE. 

WHO  is  that  maiden  tall  and  fair, 
With  eyes  so  brightly  blue — 
For  wife  or  child,  full  well  I  know, 

Heaven  never  gave  to  you  ? 
A  lovelier  maid  I  have  not  seen 

On  valley,  plain,  or  hill, 
Than  she  whose  smiles  illume  your  home- 
Say  who  is  Frances  Dill  ? 

Nay,  ask  me  not  that  tale  to  tell, 

'Tis  full  of  grief  and  pain, 
And  I  would  fain  forget  it  all, 

Recall  it  not  again. 
Yet,  if  you  feel  in  mournful  mood, 

Come  sit  beside  this  rill, 
And  I'll  recount  the  history 

Of  lovely  Frances  Dill. 

When  I  was  journeying  in  the  West, 

Some  fifteen  years  ago, 
Amid  a  forest  vast  and  dark, 

I  found  a  cottage  low ; 


D 


1 


ft 


1 86  FRANCES  DILL. 

The  moss  grew  on  its  broken  roof, 
Its  hearth  was  cold  and  chill, 

Yet  found  I  there  this  lovely  flower, 
My  peerless  Frances  Dill. 

Her  mother  was  a  woman  pale, 

And  sad  of  heart  was  she, 
And  tears  oft  wet  the  baby's  face 

That  slumbered  on  her  knee — 
A  poor  deserted  stricken  wretch, — 

With  time  to  weep  at  will, — 
No  joyful  voice  was  in  the  home 

Of  little  Frances  Dill. 

As  nurtured  by  these  mournful  showers, 

The  baby  grew  apace, 
I  know  not  how  she  learned  to  smile, 

Yet  smiling  was  her  face. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  as  wintry  sky 

Which  glittering  starlights  fill, 
And  sunny  ringlets  clasped  the  brow 

Of  pretty  Frances  Dill. 

She  looked  upon  her  mother's  face, 
Where  all  was  gloom  and  care, 

She  wandered  to  the  river's  bank 
To  seek  for  sunbeams  there. 


c 


FRAXCES  DILL. 

And  playing  with  the  truants  bright 
Beside  the  sparkling  rill — 

There  first  I  heard  the  ringing  laugh 
Of  sweet  young  Frances  Dill. 

I  wondered  how  that  mother's  brow 

Could  be  so  stern  and  cold, 
While  like  a  fairy  round  her  played 

Her  child — now  three  years  old. 
I  marveled  what  deep  fount  of  grief 

Her  aching  heart  could  fill, 
Too  dark,  too  turbid  to  reflect 

The  smiles  of  Frances  Dill. 

But  when  I  heard  that  woman  pale 

Her  tale  of  sorrow  tell, 
I  only  wondered  how  she  bore 

Her  bitter  lot  so  well. 
Remorse  and  shame  were  in  the  past- 

The  future  darker  still — 
All,  all  that  brightened  life  was  gone, 

Save  only  Frances  Dill. 


187 


With  many  a  sad,  wild  burst  of  woe, 
With  many  a  blush  of  shame, 

She  told  me  of  her  early  days — 
Her  country  and  her  name. 


fi= 


X88  FRANCES  DILL. 

With  bitter  burning  agony — 
That  haunts  my  memory  still — 

She  made  me  swear  I  would  protect 
Her  little  Frances  Dill. 

A  merchant  rich  her  father  was, 

His  only  child  was  she, 
For  he  beneath  the  sod  had  laid 

Her  little  brothers  three. 
Indulgent,  kind  and  gentle  too, 

He  never  crossed  her  will — 
Save  that  he  frowned  upon  the  love 

She  bore  for  Arthur  Dill. 

A  dark-browed  man,  revengeful,  fierce, 

With  crime  familiar  grown — 
A  hypocrite  who  feigned  to  love, 

Yet  loved  her  gold  alone. 
And  gave  she  him  her  heart  and  soul, 

A  bond-slave  to  his  will, 
Alas  !  she  lived  to  rue  the  day 

She  trusted  Arthur  Dill. 

Her  much  loved  sire  a  bleeding  corpse 
Was  found  at  early  morn ; 

At  eve  to  prison,  fettered,  bound, 
Was  that  false  husband  borne  ; 


C 


FRANCES  DILL.  189 

A  felon's  death  of  shame  he  died, 

And  she — she  loved  him  still — 
And  half  the  tears  that  daughter  shed, 

Were  shed  for  Arthur  Dill. 

With  that  lone,  friendless,  stricken  one, 

I  could  not  choose  but  weep, 
I  sought  my  inn,  I  sought  my  bed, 

But  sought  in  vain  to  sleep. 
At  early  dawn  I  took  my  way — 

Upon  that  moss-grown  sill 
An  orphan — by  her  mother's  hand — 

Alone  wept  Frances  Dill. 

In  that  lone  cottage  where  she  died, 

We  dug  a  grave  unblessed, 
And  laid  that  mangled  body  there, 

For  that  at  least  might  rest. 
The  weeping  one  in  my  embrace 

I  strove  to  soothe  and  still, 
And  to  my  own  bright  southern  home 

I  bore  young  Frances  Dill. 

And  she  has  been  my  hope  and  star — 

My  comfort  and  my  stay — 
Thy  brightness  of  my  lonely  lot — 

The  light  to  guide  my  way. 


190 


THE  SONG  OE  THE  FREE. 

In  infancy  my  plaything  sweet, 
In  youth  my  solace  still, 

I  bless  the  day,  I  bless  the  hour, 
I  found  sweet  Frances  Dill. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    FREE. 

THEY  are  gone,  all  gone,  who  in  danger's  hour 
Plighted  their  lives  'gainst  the  tyrant's  power ; 
And  the  green  turf  lies  on  each  noble  breast, 
And  the  brave  have  gone  to  their  honor'd  rest ; 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  these  old  vet'rans  gray, 
They  have  passed  like  a  summer  cloud  away, 
But  their  mem'ry  shall  shine  like  a  star  o'er  the  wave, 
And  beauty  shall  weep  o'er  the  patriot's  grave. 


They  are  gone,  all  gone,  yet  they  lived  to  see 
All  their  own  loved  land  from  her  base  bonds  free ; 
The  tyrants  who  trampled  her  soil  had  fled, 
Then  they  lay  down  in  peace  to  sleep  with  the  dead  ; 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  shall  tyrant's  again 
Pollute  our  free  shores  with  their  galling  chain  ? 
Oh  !  the  last  warm  blood  from  our  hearts  shall  flow, 
Ere  we  yield  to  the  bonds  of  a  foreign  foe  ! 


fl 


THE  PASTOR'S  FUNERAL. 


I9I 


THE    PASTOR'S    FUNERAL. 

A  STRANGER  paused  in  our  village  street, 
Before  the  church-yard  gate, 
For  the  sexton  there,  with  his  thin  gray  hair, 

On  a  funeral  seemed  to  wait ; 
And  the  wailing  swell  of  the  solemn  bell 

Sent  forth  its  mournful  tone — 
"  And  who  is  dead?"  the  stranger  said, 

"  And  who  to  his  rest  hath  gone  ? 
For  fair,  I  ween,  the  fame  hath  been 

Of  that  departed  one." 

The  old  man  dashed  from  his  eye  a  tear, 

As  he  leaned  on  his  earth-worn  spade, 
"  Ah  !  one  is  gone  whom  all  bemoan," 

The  old  man  sadly  said. 
"  Oh  !  suddenly,  suddenly  called  to  rest 

Hath  our  pastor  passed  away, 
And  his  people  come,  in  tears  and  gloom, 

To  bury  his  honored  clay  ; 
For  a  faithful  friend  was  he  to  them, 

A  laborer  night  and  day. 


f 

1 92  THE  PA  S TOR  'S  Fl '.VENAL. 

"  They  gather,  they  gather  from  hut  and  hall, 

They  gather  from  vale  and  hill, 
And  the  house  is  full,  and  the  porch  is  full, 

And  yet  they  are  gathering  still ! 
And  the  solemn  hearse,  with  its  nodding  plume, 

And  its  trappings  rich  and  rare ; 
And  the  steed  in  vain  that  scorns  the  rein, 

Stands  proudly  chafing  there — 
Oh  !  fair  the  pastor's  life  hath  been, 

His  funeral  shall  be  fair." 

Now  the  stranger  went  in  to  a  lowly  room, 

The  face  of  the  dead  to  see, 
And  the  furniture  scant,  it  spoke  of  want, 

And  it  whispered — poverty  ; 
And  the  pastor  lay  there  in  his  thin  white  shroud, 

With  his  hands  on  his  moveless  breast ; 
And  oh !  his  brow  is  as  placid  now 

As  a  babe  in  its  cradled  rest — 
He  care  and  woe  no  more  shall  know 

For  his  home  is  with  the  blest. 

And  the  widow,  she  sat  by  that  coffin  head, 
With  a  young  child  on  her  knee, 

But  she  bowed  so  low,  'neath  her  load  of  woe, 
That  her  face  he  could  not  see. 

A  little  girl  leaned  on  her  mother's  lap, 
She  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  ; 


8 


THE  PASTOR'S  FUNERAL. 


193 


And  a  boy  of  four  sat  on  the  floor 

And  wept  to  see  them  weep ; 
And  ever  the  knell  of  that  funeral  bell 

Boomed  sad  in  the  silence  deep. 

And  they  bore  him  forth  from  the  parsonage  gate 

To  his  bed  in  the  church-yard  cold  ; 
And  all  spoke  well  of  the  pastor  gone, 

And  all  of  his  virtues  told  ; 
And  his  children  fair,  they  followed  there  ; 

And  his  widow — oh,  sad  to  see  ! 
The  gathering  crowd  spoke  praises  loud, 

But  not  one  word  spoke  she ! 
For  by  her  side  the  children  cried, 

And  sobbed  convulsively. 

The  grief  of  the  crowd  is  high  and  loud, 

But  her's  is  silent  and  deep ; 
Her  stay,  her  prop,  her  youth's  fair  hope, 

Now  sleeps  his  dreamless  sleep  ! 
Oh  where  shall  she  for  shelter  flee 

When  the  funeral  pomp  is  o'er  ? 
The  home  that  there  his  hands  made  fair, 

Her  home  shall  be  no  more  ; 
Another's  tread  shall  sound  instead 

On  that  dear  cottage  floor  ! 

The  stranger  he  mingles  with  the  throng, 
That  to  the  church-yard  sped, 


1 94  THE  PASTOR 'S  Fl  rNERAL. 

And  he  hears  them  speak  of  a  monument, 

To  honor  their  pastor  dead  ; 
Of  a  marble  stone  of  sculpture  rare, 

With  an  epitaph  fair  to  see, 
But  no  one  spoke  of  the  widowed  one, 

And  the  poor  little  orphans  three  ; 
Alas  !  that  in  our  Christian  land 

Such  thoughtless  hearts  should  be ! 

"  And  was  he  faithful,"  the  stranger  said, 

"  To  give  you  the  bread  of  life, 
And  can  you  let  his  children  want, 

Nor  help  his  helpless  wife  ? 
By  night  and  day  I  hear  you  say, 

He  made  your  wants  his  care  ; 
By  the  sick-bed's  gloom,  in  the  darkened  room, 

Where  grief  and  sorrow  were, 
And  want  and  pain  held  fearful  reign, 

Your  minister  was  there. 

"  In  time  of  health,  ye  gathered  wealth, 

But  he  had  none  to  spare ; 
You  doled,  'tis  said,  his  daily  bread, 

As  his  daily  wantings  were. 
No  trophy  he  needs  that  your  hands  can  raise, 

For  he  owns  a  crown  and  a  throne ! 
Oh,  cheer  the  life  of  his  widowed  wife  ; 

Oh,  hush  his  orphan's  moan  ; 


r 

*                                                                                                                                      C      - 

n 

( 

) 

C 

TIME.—FRA  GMEN  T.                                   \  g  5 

Nor  be  it  said,  they  cried  for  bread, 
And  that  you  gave — a  stone  !  " 

Now  was  there  one  among  the  throng — 

I  may  not  name  his  name — 
For  the  generous  blush  for  generous  deeds, 

Though  the  vile  blush  not  for  shame — 
And  he  took  her  as  John  did  Mary  take, 

A  boon  by  his  Master  given, 
For  the  homeless  ones  a  home  he  found, 

And  balm  for  the  bosom  riven  : 
May  blessings  cluster  round  his  path  ; 

May  he  find  rest  in  heaven  ! 

3 

TIME.— FRAGMENT. 

A    RABIA'S  sand-bright  deserts  ne'er 
-£-^-    Did  such  a  fiery  courser  bear, 

As  that  which  Father  Time  hather  found, 

To  speed  him  in  his  annual  round. 

Hours,  weeks,  and  months,  have  come,  have  past, 

The  year's  last  sands  are  falling  fast ; 

Improve  the  fleeting  moments  given, 

t 

To  balance  its  accounts  with  heaven. 

1 

u 

0                                                                                                                                      Q — 

u 

ft 


196 


FRAXKLIX. 


FRANKLIN. 

FRANKLIN,  our  own  beloved  and  fearless  son, 
Entered  the  very  chamber  where,  exposed, 
The  infant  lightning,  cradled  in  a  cloud, 
Rocked  by  surrounding  tempests,  lulled  to  sleep 
By  the  low  murmuring  of  the  thunder's  voice, 
Meet  music  for  such  babe,  whose  lullaby, 
Oft  louder  than  was  suited  for  repose, 
Roused  the  young  nursling  instant  from  his  sleep  ; 
Who,  gayly  gamboling,  leaped  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
Or,  flitting  round  the  dark  and  dusky  screen, 
The  thick  black  curtain  of  his  lofty  bed, 
Came  peeping  brightly  forth,  or,  passing  swift 
Beyond,  you  might  discern 
The  brilliant  border  of  his  burnished  robe. 
Yet  he,  that  gay  wild  wayward  dangerous  one, 
The  slightest  feather  of  whose  lurid  wing 
Brought  death  to  all  it  touched  ;  yet  he  was  tamed — 
Aye,  taught  to  be  a  common  errand-boy, 
To  fly  from  town  to  town  on  rapid  wing  ; 
The  messenger  of  maidens,  taught  to  tell 
Love  tales,  and  whisper  softly  of  the  fall 
Of  ruined  merchants;  or  announce  the  approach, 
With  trumpet-tongue,  of  battle,  blood  and  war. 


C 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  HEART. 


I97 


C 


MEMORIES    OF    THE    HEART. 


TO   FANNY. 

TES,  Fanny,  I  remember  well  thy  mother's  gen- 
tle mien, 
The  broad  expanse  of  that  fair  brow,  all  passionless, 

serene  ; 
The  blue  eye's  lengthened  languish,  the  cheek's  soft, 

peach-like  hue  ; 
Yes,  I  remember  she  was  fair,  yet  not  so  fair  as  you. 


I  see  her  now  as  I  was  wont,  that  dark  brown  glossy 
hair 

So  modestly  and  smoothly  combed  upon  her  fore- 
head fair  ; 

The  smile  so  transient,  yet  so  sweet,  that  o'er  her 
features  moved, 

The  voice  so  soft,  the  words  so  kind,  all  loved,  for  all 
were  loved. 

The  very  robe  that  wrapped  her  form  seemed  made 

the  heart  to  win, 
For  purity  and  grace  without,  forth  figured  grace 

within, 


!q8  memories  of  the  heart. 

No  glittering  diamond  decked  her  brow,  no  gem  her 

finger  bore, 
A    meek   and    quiet   spirit    was    the    ornament    she 

wore. 

■ 

Oh,  Fanny  !  when  that  loving  lip  was  first  to  thine 

impressed, 
She  fondly  thought  of  years  to  come  in  shadeless 

pleasure  dressed  ; 
Her  fancy  brightly  pictured  thee  to  woman's  stature 

grown, 
In  all  thy  youth  and  loveliness — her  beautiful — her 

own. 

When  on  thy  infant  face  she  gazed,  in  rapture's  fond- 
est mood, 

She  thought  of  many  a  blandishment  to  lure  thee  to 
be  good  ; 

Of  many  a  gentle,  kind  reproof,  of  warnings  to  be 
given, 

Of  flowers  to  strew  along  the  path  she  trod  with  thee 
to  heaven. 

Yet  when  she  heard  her  Saviour's  voice  in  sweetest 

accents  say, 
"  Come,  my  beloved  !"  she  rose  in  haste  to  take  her 

heavenward  way; 


C 


fl 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  HEART. 


I99 


Ol^,  if  there   was  one  earthly  grief  her  joyful  spirit 

knew, 
One  tear  to  dim  her  closing  eye,  that  tear  was  shed 

for  you. 

When  severed  were  the  links  that  bound  the  spirit 

and  the  clay, 
And  the  light  wing  was  gladly  poised  to  bear  the 

soul  away ; 
Yet  was  one  silken  tie  unloosed,  one  golden  band  un- 

riven, 
Maternal  love,  a  lengthening  chain,  connected  earth 

and  heaven. 

Perhaps  when  others  sleep  she  comes  upon  thy  brow 

to  gaze, 
And  watches  all  thy  slumbering  thoughts  and  all  thy 

waking  ways ; 
When  devious,  to  the  right  or  left  thy   wandering 

footsteps  stray, 
She  longs  to  breathe  a  warning  word,  and  point  the 

narrow  way. 

No  form  I  see,  no  voice  I  hear,  nor  sigh  nor  sound 

reveal 
The  pure  emotions  undefined  that  o'er  my  spirits 

steal ; 


CT 


1 


c 


2 do  MEMORIES  OF  THE  HEART. 

Thoughts  high,  unutterable,  vast,  to  my  rapt  soul 
are  given, 

Revealings  bright,  communings  sweet,  strange  inter- 
course with  heaven. 


Oh  can  it  be  her  soul  and  mine  that  meet  and  minirle 
now  ? 

Is  this  her  soft,  ethereal  wing  that  fans  my  fevered 
brow  ? 

With  the  dim,  distant  spirit-land  can  such  commun- 
ings be  ? 

Her  hovering  shade  indite  the  lines  my  fingers  write 
for  thee  ? 

Oh,  cause  of  many  an  anxious  thought,  of  many  a 

tender  tear, 
Of  sorrow  and  of  happiness,  of  mingling  hope  and 

fear; 
From  earth's  temptations,  sins,  and  fears,  fly  to  the 

Saviour's  breast, 
There,  only  there,  is  safety  found,  and  blessedness 

and  rest. 

Oh  !  beauty  fadeth  as  the  flower  upon  the  frail  May 

rose  ; 
Favor   is   transient   as   the    stay   of    April's    falling 

snows; 


WEEP   WE  FOR   THE  SUMMER  FLED? 


2CI 


But  she  whose  willing  feet  delight  to  tread  fair  Wis- 
dom's ways, 

Whose  thoughts  are  pure,  whose  actions  right,  oh  ! 
she  shall  have  the  praise. 

Now  blame  not,  praise  not,  that  for  you  I  write  these 

warning  words  ; 
My   passive   harp   was   tuned  and   strung  —  another 

touched  the  chords ; 
Hopes  cherished  by  thy  cradle-bed,  prayers  that  thou 

didst  not  hear, 
Breathed  by  her  spirit  to  my  soul,  I  whisper  in  thine 

ear. 


WEEP    WE    FOR    THE    SUMMER    FLED? 

WEEP  we  for  the  summer  fled — 
Weep  we  for  the  flow'rets  dead  ? 
Summer's  sun  shall  shine  again — 
Summer's  blossoms  deck  the  plain — 
Summer  birds  shall  sing  and  soar, 
High  and  happy  as  before  ; 
Rivers  from  their  fettters  free, 
Roll  in  wonted  majesty  ! 


Smiling,  dimpling,  brightly  glancing, 
To  its  own  sweet  music  dancing, 


c: 


202  WEEP   WE  FOR   THE  SUMMER  FLED? 

Shall  leap  the  little  rill  along, 
Full  of  life,  and  light,  and  song, 
Mocking  at  each  flow'ret  fair, 
That  would  seek  a  mirror  there  ! 

Soothed  by  genial  sun  and  shower, 
Forest  oaks  shall  frown  no  more — 
Weep  not,  then,  for  tears  are  vain, 
Summer's  sun  shall  shine  again  ! 

But  what  sun-beam  shall  illume 
The  dark,  dark  mansion  of  the  tomb  ? 
What  spring-time  melt  the  frozen  urn, 
And  bid  the  dead  to  life  return  ? 
Shall  not  pensive  memory  weep, 
O'er  the  beds  of  some  who  sleep  ? 
Flowers  which  spring,  or  sun,  or  shower, 
Shall  awake  to  life  no  more  ? 
But  He,  our  refuge  and  our  stay — 
He  whose  words  the  seasons  swa)r — ■ 
He  who  heeds  the  mourner's  sighs, 
He  shall  bid  the  buried  rise  ! 
Weep  not,  then,  for  tears  are  vain, 
Our  faded  flowers  shall  spring  again, 
Bloom  on  heaven's  own  sacred  sod, 
And  perfume  the  throne  of  God  ! 


c 


AN  AGED  POET'S  DESIRE. 


203 


AN    AGED    POET'S    DESIRE.* 

WHEN  past  is  life's  morn,  and  its  sunset  is  near, 
And  the  shadows  of  eve  gather  o'er  me, 
I  should  like  to  possess  just  enough  of  earth's  gear 

To  brighten  the  pathway  before  me — 
A  cot  and  a  garden,  an  acre  or  more, 

And  a  neighbor  to  lend  to  and  borrow, 
And  a  heart  both  to  succor  and  pity  the  poor, 
And  enough  for  to-day  and  to-morrow. 

Some  books  on  my  table,  pens,  paper,  and  ink, 

To  read  or  to  write  at  my  leisure, 
And  a  head  not  too  dull  or  too  stupid  to  think, 

And  a  heart  not  too  frigid  for  pleasure  ; 
A  measure  of  health  if  my  Maker  sees  best, 

If  not,  calm  submission  in  sorrow  ; 
And  a  couch  and  a  pillow,  when  wearied,  to  rest, 

And  a  hope  for  a  brighter  to-morrow. 

Nor  let  me  repine  that  my  spring-time  is  past, 

That  my  youth  and  vigor  are  over ; 
These  blessings  I  knew  were  too  fleeting  to  last, 

And  I  ask  not  their  loss  to  recover. 

*  Written   at  the  advanced  age  of  seventy-five  years,  and  the  au- 
thor's last  poem. 


A 


204  AN  AGED  POET'S  DESIRE. 

I  can  look  in  the  glass  tho'  my  tresses  be  gray, 
Nor  shrink  at  each  time-written  furrow, 

When  I  know  that  this  fabric,  a  ruin  to-day, 
May  become  a  fair  temple  to-morrow. 

I  would  smile  with   the  young — let  them  dance,  let 
them  sing — 

For  I  was  once  young,  I  remember ; 
And  why  should  the  fair,  budding  blossoms  of  Spring 

Be  blighted  by  blasts  of  December? 
Let  the  aged  consider  the  days  that  are  past, 

When  the  light  heart  beat  reckless  of  sorrow, 
And  the  young  that  the  spring-time  of  life  cannot 
last, 

For  old  age  is  approaching  to-morrow. 

And  grant  me  a  friend,  tried,  trusted  and  true, 

Too  long,  too  well  known  to  deceive  me ; 
And  a  conscience  as  pure  and  as  stainless  as  dew, 

Tho'  of  all  other  gifts  you  bereave  me. 
Let  no  memory  of  fraud,  of  deception,  of  wrong, 

No  mortal  by  me  doomed  to  sorrow, 
Steal  forth  in  the  night-time  to  sadden  my  song, 

Or  shadow  my  sunshine  to-morrow. 

Yet  each  thought  of  my  heart  I  submit  to  Thy  will, 
Each  wish  of  my  soul  to  Thy  keeping  ; 

A  shield  and  a  buckler  be  Thou  to  me  still, 
Mv  guardian  when  waking  or  sleeping. 


c 


cfcf ^> 

AN  AGED  POET'S  DESIRE.  20$ 

Naught  of  all  that  I  wish  for  my  spirit  would  claim, 

Unless  I  Thy  sanction  can  borrow, 
All  glory  and  praise  I  ascribe  to  Thy  name, 

Whatever  my  portion  to-morrow. 

Thus  calm  let  me  pass  through  the  twilight  of  life 

Thus  calm  let  me  rest  when  it  closes, 
And  feel  that  the  world  has  no  glory  or  strife    ■ 

For  a  soul  that  on  Jesus  reposes  ; 
On  Him,  my  Redeemer,  my  trust,  and  my  stay, 

Let  me  roll  all  my  sin  and  my  sorrow, 
And  cheerfully  watch  for  the  dawning  of  day — 

A  bright,  everlasting  to-morrow. 


r= ^ 


206  IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

THE   reaper   Death    has    broken   another    silver 
chord — 
A  mortal  angel-pinioned  is  immortal  with  the  Lord  ; 
A  pitcher  at  the  fountain  has  in  fragments  broken  fell, 
And  we  see  the  grave  and  coffin  and  hear  the  tolling 
bell. 

Ah  !  was  the  shock  so  fully  ripe,  the  reaper  could 

not  spare  ? 
Was  there  in  Heaven  a  white  robe — one  wanted  it  to 

wear? 
Was  earth  too  cold,  too  damp,  too  drear,  to  nourish 

such  a  flower — 
That    angel    bands   came    to    transplant    unto    the 

Heavenly  bower  ? 

Must  such  a  bright  and  lovely  star,  be  lost  in  Death's 

dark  night — 
Or  is  she  near  the  ones  beloved — a  minister  of  light  ? 
Methinks  I   hear  the  rustling  now,  of  pinions  in  the 

air, 
And    hear   the  songs   the  angels  sing   and    see    the 

crowns  they  wear. 


IN  MEM  OR  I  AM.  20J 

To  earth  they  come,  to  guard,  to  cheer,  to  comfort 

and  sustain, 
As   falls   upon    the   drooping   flowers,    the    summer 

evening's  rain  ; 
As  to  the  Arab's  sight  appears,  the  fair  oasis'  palm, 
So  give  they  to  the  heart  a  joy,  a  quietude,  a  calm. 

We  know  the  pearly  gates  received  her  spirit  -from 

its  flight — 
We  know  she  treads  the  golden  streets  where  Jesus 

is  the  light — 
And  there  possessed  of  diadem,  a  golden  crown  and 

lyre, 
She  sings  the  holy  "  Song  of  love  "  with  all  the  saintly 

choir. 

She    is    not    dead  —  she    liveth    yet  —  renewed    by 

Heavenly  life, 
Her   bark   is   safely  moored   at   last    from    tempest, 

clouds  and  strife — 
We  would   not   mourn — we   would   not    weep — our 

loss  must  be  her  joy, 
While  she  keeps  hourly  vigils  by  the  father  and  his 

boy. 


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